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THE HARVEST HOME 



The day is done, its toil, its weariness; 

The long-delaying evening now has come, 
With dusk and silence and cool dews that bless, 

With shorn gray uplands — and the harvest home. 



Five hundred and fifty-five copies 
of this book have been printed from 
type and the tvpe distributed; this 
copy is No <v. .V*. . . 



The Harvest Home 



COLLECTED POEMS 

of 
JAMES B. KENYON 



JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

NEW YORK 

1920 



WSsp 




\ ^\ ^ sO^r* 




BOOKS AY MR, KEN YON ... . 




PROSE 




LOITERINGS IN OLD FIELDS 




Remembered Days 




Retribution 




verse 




The Fallen and Other Poems 




Out of the Shadows 




Songs in All Seasons 




In Realms of Gold' 




At the Gate of Dreams 




An Oaten Pipe 


A Little Book of Lullabies 




'*" JNems 




Reed Voices 





For the privilege of reprinting many of the poems in 
this volume grateful acknowledgements are due to the 
Atlantic Monthly, Scribner's Magazine, Harper's Maga- 
zine, Harper's Weekly, Munsey's Magazine, Ainslee's, 
People's Magazine, Popular Magazine, Bellman, Lippin- 
cott's, Smart Se,t, Designer, Town and Country, Church- 
man, New York Sun, Nezv York Times, Art World, 
Century and other publications. 



copyright, 1919 
by james t. white & co. 

919 

©CLA515648 



CONTENTS 

At the Gate of Dreams 

A Vision of Eld 3 

A Quest 4 

Reaping 5 

The Robber 6 

Belated 7 

The Harpsichord. 9 

The Reveler io 

A Maid of Yesterday 1 1 

The Racers 12 

In the Orchard 13 

A Song of the Ideal 14 

The Sleepers 16 

The Truant. 19 

We Will Keep Our Dreams 20 

The Old Path...,. ..' 21 

Heimweh 22 

The Deserted Garden 23 

A Plea to Time 25 

Petronius Arbiter 26 

Hylas and Hercules 27 

The Unseen World. 29 

The Turning of the Road 30 

Chanson du Matin 31 

Twilight and Music 32 

The Viewpoint 35 

Perpetua • • 36 

A Breath of Violets 37 

Playmates • 38 

The Bibliophile 39 

Home at Evening Time 4° 

A Quaker Maid 4 1 

The Brookside 42 



Phaon Concerning Sappho 43 

At the Meadow Bars 44 

Archery 45 

Pan 46 

Change 47 

The Odalik 48 

At a Bookstall 49 

My House 50 

At Fourscore 51 

The Immortal 52 

Would You Come ? 53 

The Play 53 

She Came and Went 54 

The Difference 55 

In Mid-Journey 56 

The Watcher 57 

Forgotten 58 

The Sweet-Pea 59 

Tiger-Lily 59 

The Cricket 60 

A Modern Joust 61 

Joan d'Arc 62 

The Two Paths 63 

A Broken Dream 63 

The Inn 64 

Music 64 

The Dawn of Womanhood 65 

Silenus 66 

The Child that Was 68 

A Memory of Theocritis 69 

By the Brook > 70 

The Faun .-, . , 72 

The World's Way 73 

Rejuvenescence 74 

The Rover , 75 



Children of Yesterday , 76 

Autumn 77 

The Lost Voyage 78 

Truth , 78 

The Side Unseen 79 

A Colonial Memory 80 

On the Wheel - 81 

An Incomplete Angler „ 83 

Caprice . . 84 

An Old-Fashioned Girl 85 

To a Child 86 

The Transformation 87 

Lilac Blossoms 88 

Contrast 89 

A Modern Orpheus 90 

In Exile 91 

A Memory of Home 92 

Evening Among the Oaks 92 

An Ocean Burial. 93 

In the Night Watches 94 

Vanished 95 

The Mother 96 

An Attic Chamber — 97 

The Coming Bard 99 

The Eclipse 100 

Deserted 101 

The Forgotten Way 102 

The Satyr's Theft 103 

A South Wind 104 

Tacita 105 

Salome 106 

Daphne 107 

Salve et Vale 108 

Two Lives 109 

Adam no 



A Maid of Sicily 1 1 1 

In Arcady 113 

The Poet 114 

The King is Dying 115 

Abandoned 116 

Evening at Cape Ann 117 

When I Am Dead 118 

The Enigma 1 19 

Guileless Eyes 120 

Squandered 120 

A Book-Pressed Violet 121 

The Airman 122 

Echo's Lament 123 

On a Fly-Leaf of Dante 124 

The Tyriax's Memory . 125 

The Traveler 127 

Bacchus 128 

A Hundred Years 129 

After a Fragment of Sappho's . . 131 

The Night-Angel 131 

Opportunity 132 

Sanbenetto 133 

Atavism 133 

The New Poet 134 

Ox the Revival of the Elizabethans 134 

Imogex ix the Cave of Belarius 135 

The Prophet's Exd 136 

Evolutiox 137 

John Davidson 137 

The Last Shelter y8 

Recompense 138 

A Rom ax Queen 139 

SOXG FOR THE SLAIX 141 

A Sea Grave 145 

Requiescat 146 



A November Grave ; 146 

Joy Cometh in the Morning 147 

A Wife 148 

The Burden of ^Edon 149 

After the Bath 150 

Nora 151 

Heroes 153 

Omar Khayyam 154 

Character 154 

Et Ego in Arcadia 155 

The Harlequin 156 

Hymn for the Empire State 157 

Tread Lightly 158 

Laconia 159 

Finis 160 

An Autumn Ballad 161 

Moonlight 164 

Ceres 165 

A Memory 166 

Song of the North Wind 167 

Carpe Diem 168 

The Fatal Test 169 

Art 170 

Come Back, Dear Days 171 

Sunrise 172 

An Immortelle 173 

Song of the Vaudois Exiles 174 

The Bedouins of the Sky 174 

Arethusa 175 

The Derelict 176 

Before and After 177 

The Guest. 178 

Pax Mortis 179 

A City Cry 180 

The Wanderer. .> 181 



A Shooting Star 182 

Farringford 183 

A Fool To-day. a Saint To-Morrow 185 

Sorrow Blind 186 

A Volume of Verse 186 

The Specter 187 

The Cruise 188 

In the Cloister 189 

Carlyle 191 

A Vanished Face 192 

The Cure- Alls 192 

When Clover Blooms 193 

The Gypsy Queen 194 

Nameless Graves 195 

A Ballad of Death 197 

Joy of Life 200 

A Puzzle 201 

The Singing Pilgrim 201 

At the Window 202 

Hygeia 203 

The Chamber of Night 2G4 

Thyself 205 

The Avant-Courier 206 

Romeo to Juliet 207 

Euthanasia 208 

Nova Vita 210 

Unchangeable v 2i 1 

A Ruined Rosebud 211 

The Milkmaid 212 

A Protest 213 

The Advent 214 

Arachne 214 

A City Thoroughfare 215 

Pereunt et Imputantur 217 

His Own Received Him Not 217 



A Great Man 218 

The Crisis 219 

The Prisoner and the Lark 220 

From An Ancient Urn 223 

Robert Browning 224 

A Pavement Fossil 225 

In the Market Place 227 

After the Bridal 228 

Withdrawn 229 

The Pursuit of Fame 229 

The Newcomer 230 

Milton 231 

Maiden and Bride 233 

R. L. S 234 

Defeated 234 

Little Footfalls 235 

Anticipation 236 

The Upper Realms 237 

Vox Doloris r 238 

At Sunset , 238 

Vanished 239 

A Voice from Rama 240 

Sing a Song of Sixpence 241 

The Heart of a Boy 242 

Love's Names 243 

A Song of the Hilltop 244 

A Nativity 244 

Cradle Songs 245 

The Better Part „ 251 

Sappho 252 

Come Slowly Paradise 253 

The Two Spirits 253 

After the Feast 254 

Cleopatra to Antony 254 

The Changeless Round 255 



A Poet's Grave 256 

Her Home-Coming 257 

The Spinning Wheel 258 

Longfellow 259 

Sweet Are the Uses of Adversity 259 

Blind 260 

The Deeper Wisdom 261 

Croesus 262 

The Angel of Night 262 

Grapes of Eschol 263 

Nature's Child 264 

Thbi Shell , 265 

The Triumph of Life 265 

The Belated Piper 266 

Reed Voices 

My Kindred 269 

Elusion 271 

April , 272 

In Summer Fields 273 

The Magic Touch 274 

The Endless Renewing , 275 

The Wood-Thrush 276 

Sleepyside 278 

The Miracle 279 

Drifting 280 

An Oaten Pipe 281 

Nature 281 

The Dead Pine 282 

T he Hidden Joy 283 

Undiscovered 284 

Healing Nature 286 

The Veery 287 

On the Cliff 287 

Midwinter 288 



The Miser Year 288 

Nesting Time Again 289 

Content 289 

The Reawakening . 290 

When Bluebirds First Appear 291 

Song of the Spring 292 

Dandelions 293 

Evensong 293 

A Rainy Day 294 

August 295 

The Belated Daffodils 296 

The First Snowfall 297 

A Song of the Hills 298 

Now Sleeps the Breathing Earth 302 

Ad Vesperam 303 

Dawn 304 

Dusk 305 

A Song of the Wood 306 

The Blessed Isles 310 

Morning by Ontario 311 

The New Day 312 

Unforgotten Days 313 

A Song of May 314 

The Fruitful Year 315 

Seed-Time 316 

Harvest 317 

A Day of Dreams 318 

One With Nature. 319 

Morning 320 

Nightfall 321 

A Hint of Winter 323 

The Waning Year 324 

An Autumn Morning 325 

Syrinx ■. 326 

Nature's Renewing 327 



Learned at Last 328 

The Sole Request 329 

Her Nursling 330 

At the Sign of the Heart 

The Whispered Word t>33 

The Masquerader 334 

Love's Sorcery 335 

Vae Victis 336 

Garden Ghosts 337 

Nocturne > 338 

The Bridal Morning 339 

A Woman 339 

Her Violin 340 

To Her Watch 341 

Absent 341 

Mine Adversary 342 

Sundered 343 

Estranged 344 

Love's Paradox 344 

The Reconciliation 345 

Flown 346 

Heaven Near 347 

Parting 347 

The First Tryst 348 

The Present 349 

New Life, New Love 350 

The Old Story 351 

For Thine Own Sake 352 

Expectancy , 353 

The Captive 354 

I W t ould My Song Were Like a Star 355 

Cupid's Arrows 356 

Rosalind's Song 357 

A Prophecy 357 



The Victory 358 

Seaward 359 

Love is Dead 360 

Canticle 361 

The Refluent Wave 362 

The Veiled Destiny 363 

The Dividing of the Ways 364 

Wizardry 365 

The Jester 366 

A Haunted Heart 367 

The Blind Archer 368 

To , 368 

The Late Comer 369 

Love Gives Its All 370 

Her Returning 370 

Sometime — Somewhere 371 

At Shut of Day 372 

His Confession 372 

Her Coming 373 

Recognition 374 

The Answer , 374 

The Fledgeling 375 

Vale 376 

Love's Renascence 376 

Divided 377 

Valley Born 377 

O Breath of the Golden Day 379 

A Sleep and a Dream 379 

Fulfillment 3&> 

At Sunset 381 

Unforgotten 382 

The Vernal Call 382 

Disinherited 383 

All Beauteous Things 384 

Her Loveliness 384 



The Paradox 385 

Love and Beauty 386 

The Universal Prayer 386 

Altar Stairs 

The Anchorite 389 

The Secrzt Ministries .' 390 

A House Not Made With Hands 391 

Homeward 391 

As a Little Child 392 

Weary 393 

Wasted 393 

A Vesper Prayer 394 

His Earthly Courts 395 

"He Bringeth the Wind" 396 

Doubt and Faith 397 

The Sheltering Care 398 

A Challenge 399 

Elim 400 

Recompense 401 

Ichabod 401 

"The Strength of the Hills is His Also". . 402 

Beyond the Meridian 403 

The Potter's Clay 404 

'"And Thy Sleep Shall Be Sweet" 404 

Poems by Doris Ken yon 

The Pool on the Pavement 407 

Foreknown 408 

The Light on the Hillside 409 

The Haven of the Heart 411 

The Birth of the Firefly 411 

The Selfish Aim 412 

Xaughty Lucile 413 

The Teardrop 414 

In an Airplane 414 



AT THE GATE OF DREAMS 



There wrinkled age and rosy childhood meet; 

There strange stars silver night's mysterious streams; 
There wayworn mortals come with weary feet, 

And drop their burdens at the Gate of Dreams. 



At the Gate of Dreams 



A VISION OF ELD 

HOW have the swift-winged centuries sped! 
What unguessed circuits time hath run! 
Yet, though uncounted years are dead, 
Shines on the same clear sun. 

I see once more the vaulted aisles 
That pierce the dim and claustral wood ; 

Again the pomp of summer smiles 
O'er all the solitude. 

Light breezes from the mountain side 
Bring bell-like bayings of the hounds; 

While slim ears, round the forest wide, 
Leap at the vibrant sounds. 

Amid the trees gay pennons gleam; 

And, hark! from soft-curved, supple throats, 
Heard silverly as in a dream, 

A peal of joy out floats. 

There sweeps the stately cavalcade; 

The high-born dames, the knightly men, 
With whip and spur prick through the glade — 

I see them all again. 

I see the proudly tossing plume; 

The glittering casque, the ribboned spear, 
And, riding through the fragrant gloom, 

Launcelot and Guinevere. 



The Hakyest Home 



And where yon dusky branches spread 
Above the queen's deep-shadowed eyes, 

Sir Launcelot, with low-bent head, 
Hears Guinevere's replies. 



A QUEST 

SOMEWHERE, afar, I know it lies— 
The spot ne'er seen of human eyes 
There all day long the shadows sleep 
In woven grasses, cool and deep; 
There o'er its shallows slants a stream 
In which the rushes dip and dream; 
All day to some tall reed there clings 
The dragon-fly with moveless wings; 
No bird-note wakes the slumbering air ; 
No piping insects revel there ; 
Within that quiet nook the breeze 
Scarce lifts the leaves upon the trees. 
It is the haunt where Peace abides, 
Shy Peace that ever flees and hides 
Before man's sad and weary face. 
Ah, should I find her secret place, 
And steal upon her silently, 
Or e'er her timid feet could flee, 
Might I not seize and hold her well, 
And bring her captive where men dwell? 



At the Gate of Dreams 



REAPING 

ALONG the east strange glories burn. 
And kindling lights leap high and higher. 
As morning from her azure urn 
Pours forth her golden fire. 

From rush and reed, from bush and brake, 
Float countless jeweled gossamers, 

That glance and dazzle as they shake 
In every breeze that stirs. 

A bird, upspringing from the grain. 
Flutes loud and clear his raptured note, 

That mingles with as blithe a strain 
As e'er thrilled human throat. 

Amid the tasseled ranks of corn 

She stands breast-high ; her arms are bare ; 
And round her warm brown neck the morn 

Gleams on her lustrous hair. 

The sickle flashes in her hand; 

The dew laves both her naked feet; 
She reaps and sings, and through the land 

She sends her carols sweet. 

The wind breathes softly on her brow ; 

To touch her lips tall blossoms seek; 
And as the stricken columns bow, 

They kiss her glowing cheek. 



The Harvest Home 



O happy maiden ! in her breast 

Guile has no place ; her virgin sleep 

Vain thoughts ne'er trouble ; she is blest : 
She has no tears to weep. 

She knows nor longs for prouder things ; 

Her simple tasks are all her care ; 
She lives and loves, and reaps and sings, 

And makes the world more fair. 

THE ROBBER 

AY, he hath stolen her sweets and gone 
The robber bee, upon his quest 
For honeyed booty, from the breast 
Of yon fair lily now hath flown. 

In vain the south-wind wooes ; 
In vain the ring dove cooes ; 
Like unto some pale maid, 
The lily stands betrayed. 
Her nectared bosom pillaged and undone. 

Ah ! sad so white a breast should lie, 

With all its stores of virgin sweet, 
Thus to be prey for plundering feet, 

And spoil for any wanton eye ! 
Yet many a bosom chaste 
Hath been by love laid waste — 
Light love that came and went, 
And left a life forspent 

Beneath a far, serene, and mockinc" sky. 



At the Gate qf Dreams 



BELATED 

HERE through years she dwelt apart 
Still I see her, as of old; 
Round her swallows wheel and dart, 
Summer spreads its cloth of gold. 

Droning bees in dew-wet flowers, 

Ploughmen shouting to their teams, 

Whisperings of fragrant showers — 
All are mingled with her dreams. 

Backward roll the cloudy years ; 

Other scenes before her rise ; 
Other sounds are in her ears; 

Other suns climb other skies. 

She, a damsel sore distressed, 
From her ivied casement high 

Leans with dolor-stricken breast, 
Watching with a haggard eye ; 

Till, through mists that blur her sight, 
Pricking o'er the wide champaign, 

She beholds her proud young knight 
Leading up his bannered train. 

And she knows the hour is near 
When, beyond that prisoning wall, 

She shall vanish without fear — 
Borne afar, love's happy thrall. 



The Harvest Home 



Or, through fields with daisies pied, 

Hooded falcon on her wrist, 
Slim hound frisking at her side, 

Forth she fares to keep her tryst. 

There where immemorial trees 
Lift gnarled boughs to sun and rain, 

Mid bird-haunted privacies, 
Lives the old sweet tale again. 

Thus, while tongues still clashed and strove, 

And joy withered at a breath, 
Her unaging spirit wove 

Rainbows o'er the gulfs of death. 

Gentle dreamer ! soul of snow ! 

Out of place and season born, 
Hither come — how, none may know — 

Wandering from some earlier morn, 

Teach us, though the world be wide, 

And life miss its high emprise, 
That the heart, whate'er betide, 

Still may find its Paradise. 



At the Gate of Dreams 9 

THE HARPSICHORD 

(In the Metropolitan Museum) 

THE hands that swept these keys — where are they 
now? 

And the old melodies, 
Like winds that once sang through some leafy bough 

Beneath the summer skies? 
O vision of delight! — each slender throat, 

White as the snowy swan, 
And airy feet that through the dances float 

As floats the sapphire dawn 
Above the hilltops when the day is near — 

I see them all again 
Moving beneath the tapers, and I hear 

Each mounting, passionate strain 
That set young bosoms pulsing, long ago 

When life and love were new, 
Till 'mid the dim stars paled the spent moon's bow 

O'er meadows gray with dew. 
Ah, the dear eyes that with strange witch fires glowed 

Long since to earth were closed : 
The lips that all their pearly treasures showed 

Have many years reposed, 
In that strait house where night and silence dwell, 

Unvexed by doubt or dream ; 
Yet deathless youth still weaves its world-old spell, 

Love breathes its ancient theme. 



The Harvest Home 



THE REVELER 

"O graceful Amaryllis, — regard, I pray you. my 
heart-grieving pain. I would I could become your 
buzzing bee, and so enter into your cave, penetrating 
the ivy and the ferns, with which you are covered 
in." — fheocritis. Idyl III." 

HE shrilled his fife and woke my dream; 
I heard his music clear and thin ; 
And then I found beside the stream 
The flower-bell that he reveled in. 

The clouds were floating high and white ; 

A laggard breeze began to play ; 
Along the bank-side poured the light 

From out the lavish heart of day. 

I knew that where the nectar pressed 
Up from the blossom's perfumed cell, 

There I should find the tipsy guest, 
His pining drowned in hydromel. 

O wassailer of the summer's prime! 

Gone are the goatherds from the plain ; 
Across the fields of purple thyme 

The yellow sunlight streams in vain. 

Drink to thy lover's memory ; 

Theocritus is in his grave 
Beneath the far Sicilian sky, 

And by the murmuring, sun-kissed wave. 



At the Gate of Dreams if 



A MAID OF YESTERDAY 

DOWN this pathway, through the shade, 
Lightly tripped the dainty maid, 
In her eyes the smile of June, 
On her lips some old sweet tune. 
Through yon ragged rows of box, 
By that awkward clump of phlox, 
To her favorite pansy bed, 
Like a ray of light, she sped. 
Satin slippers, trim and neat, 
Gleamed upon her slender feet ; 
Round her ankles, deftly tied, 
Ribbons crossed from side to side. 
Here her pinks, old-fashioned, fair, 
Breathed their fragrance on the air 
There her fluttering azure gown 
Shook the poppy's petals down. 
Here a rose, with fond caress, 
Stooped to touch a truant tress. 
From her fillet struggling free, 
Scorning its captivity. 
There a bed of rue was set 
With an edge of mignonette, 
And the spicy bergamot 
Meshed the frail forget-me-not. 
Honeysuckles, hollyhocks, 
Bachelors buttons, four-o'clocks, 



The Harvest Home 



Marigolds and blue-eyed grass 
Curt'sied when the maid did pass. 
Now the braggart weeds have spread 
Through the paths she loved to tread, 
And the creeping moss has grown 
O'er yon shattered dial-stone. 
Still beside the ruined walks 
Some old flowers, on sturdy stalks, 
Dream of her whose happy eyes 
Roam the fields of Paradise. 



THE RACERS 

TIME at my elbow plucks me sore; 
Yet I'll not slack my pace to hear 
The one sad word which, o'er and o'er, 
He whispers in my ear. 

Upon my hair he dusts his rime; 

I shake my head full laughingly, 
For howsoever fleet be Time, 

He shall not outstrip me. 



Ax the Gate of Dreams 



IN THE ORCHARD 

THE autumn leaves are whirled away, 
The sober skies look down 
On faded fields and woodlands gray, 
And the dun-colored town. 

Through the brown orchard's gusty aisle, 

In sad-hued gown and hood, 
Slow passes, with a peaceful smile, 

A maiden pure and good. 

Her deep, serene and dove-like eyes 
Are downward bent, her face, 

Whereon the day's pale shadow lies, 
Is sweet with nameless grace. 

The frolic wind beside her blows, 
The sear leaves dance and leap; 

With hands before her clasped, she goes 
As in a waking sleep. 

To her the ashen skies are bright, 

The russet earth is fair; 
And never shone a clearer light, 

Nor breathed a softer air. 

O wizard love ! whose magic art 
Transmutes to sun the shade, 

Thine are the beams that fill the heart 
Of this meek Quaker maid. 



The Harvest Home 



A SONG OF THE IDEAL 

OFACE I never saw, 
That still I seek 
By shadows of the shaw, 

By reed-grown creek; 
Through many a fern-deep hollow, 

And morn-lit mead, 
I follow still and follow 
Where thou dost lead. 

Where beaded gossamers 

Like rainbows change 
With every breeze that stirs ; 

Where wild things range 
Wild ways with shy, light feet, 

Through woodland dew, 
Thee, O unseen and fleet, 

I still pursue. 

Where winter, heap by heap, 

Chokes leaflless dells, 
And unleashed ice-blasts sweep 

O'er fields and fells; 
Where shivering shrubs uplift 

Hands pale and gaunt, 
Through many an unsunned drift 

I seek thy haunt. 



At the Gate of Dreams 15 



Where torrents from the height 

Pour down their streams; 
Where in the wavering light 

The dark pine dreams; 
Where angry storm-winds beat 

And lightnings play, 
I seek thy flying feet 

Day after day. 

Sometimes by silvern strands, 

When sea-winds sleep, 
And up the crinkling sands 

The thin waves creep, 
When misty twilight falls 

And night is near, 
Then from the sea's deep halls 

Thy voice I hear. 

Thou of the sun-bright head, 

Hide not thy face; 
Cloud-light thy breezy tread, 

Cloud-like thy grace. 
O whither dost thou flee? 

Where wilt thou rest? 
Still must I follow thee, 

Blest or unblest. 



1 6 The Harvest Home 



THE SLEEPERS 

DO they whisper in the dark, 
And to one another call 
Through the perfumed hush, nor mark 
Time's remote processional? 

Wrapt in silence, do they hear 
Green things growing overhead — 

Silver tinklings, thin and clear, 
Where the brook slants o'er its bed? 

Do they never seek to rise 
From the clods about them pressed, 

Love's old hunger in their eyes, 
Love's old ardors in their breast? 

When each new spring brings again 

Gush of song and flush of bloom, 
And the warm breath of the rain 

Blown through aisles of verdurous gloom- 
When the twilights ebb and flow, 

And through evening dews and musk 
Violet shadows come and go 

Round young lovers in the dusk — 



At the Gate of Dreams 17 



Feel they not the kindling blood 
In their dead veins stir and leap, 

And old longings, like a flood, 

Through their troubled quiet sweep? 

Or, when winter days are drear, 
And o'er many a sparkling roof 

Curls the smoke of household cheer, 
Of love's vestal flame the proof — 

When through purple shades of night, 

Past the wind-swept, snowy wood, 
Winks the watched- for windowed light, 

Star of love's solicitude- 
Then do rumors and desires, 

Borne through death's unsunned eclipse, 
In them wake the ancient fires? 

Dreams of lips upon their lips? 

Groping touch of babes that roves 
O'er the bosom's throbbing swell? 

Children's laughter in the groves? 
Twinkling footsteps in the dell? 

All the fond, far plaintive things 
Vanished with the vanished years — 

Bring these no dear comfortings? 
In the dust no healing tears ? 



18 The Harvest Home 



And when summer days are long, 
And the bees drone in the flowers, 

And the pewits lift their song, 
Iterant through sunlit hours ; 

From the mossy woodpaths where, 

Youth pursued, 'mid trailing boughs, 

Rosy shapes with streaming hair 
Sidewise blown from ivory brows ; 

See they not in signals mute 
Lifted hands that gleam and wave, 

While the riotous currents shoot 

Through the frost-bands of the grave? 

Barefoot milkmaids as they pass 

Singing to the vocal morn; 
Shining fruit in orchard grass ; 

Sickles flashing 'mid the corn ; 

Yule-logs blazing on the hearth ; 

Smiles and kindly speech of men ; 
All the homely ways of earth — 

Yearn they not for these again? 

Or, pavilioned round with sleep, 
Missing naught that they forego, 

Do they lie content to keep 
Secrets that we do not know? 



At the Gate of Dreams 19 



THE TRUANT 

OCOME from out the shining mists, child of 
the long-ago, 
Come with the songs of vanished birds and comrade 

streams that flow; 
Come with the balmy airs that breathe from skies of 

cloudless blue, 
Come with the perfume of the rose, wet by the early 
dew. 

Come back, O child of summers gone, come with the 
cool, clear morn, 

'With swallows twittering at the eaves above the 
tasseled corn; 

O fair-haired boyish wanderer, heart-high in meadow- 
sweet, 

Come from the dreamlands where so long have roamed 
your happy feet. 

Bring back the old delight in life, the freshness of the 

world, 
The azure banners that the spring about the pools 

unfurled, 
The buttercups and daisies, and the clover by the 

wood, 
The yellow-belted bee within the poppy's silken hood, 



_>o The Harvest Home 



O touch the eyes so weary grown, and touch the frosted 

hair, 
And from the troubled bosom lift its leaden weight of 

care ; 
O darling rover, from the golden mists of memory, 
Emerge one little hour and so restore my youth to me. 



WE WILL KEEP OUR DREAMS 

OUR dreams — nay, soul, we will not let them go; 
What though the braggart world scoff and deny, 

And pygmies in the market strive and cry, 
As emmet-like they hurry to and fro? 
The bright hours lessen, and the shadows grow, 

But we will seek the silence, thou and I, 

Content, while fame and treasure pass us by, 
To rove through quiet coverts that we know. 
Yea, we wilt hearken to the wordless speech 

Of opening buds beneath the vernal showers ; 
To us the morn its dewy lore shall teach, 

The evening whisper o'er its sleeping flowers ; 
And secrets the stars utter, each to each, 

Shall breathe of Peace 'mid her immortal bowers. 



At the Gate of Dreams 



THE OLD PATH 

THIS is the path she used to know; 
Still by yon ruined wall 
The violets and wild roses grow, 
And sparrows build and call. 

Here barefoot towards the pasture-land 

She lightly tripped along, 
A dewy blossom in her hand. 

Upon her lips a song. 

I see again her soft white throat 

Swell like a warbling bird's ; 
The clear air thrills, as through it float 

The old familiar words. 

And now she stands beside the bar, 

And where her cattle roam, 
Knee-deep in grassy dells afar, 

They hear and hasten home. 

sunny locks and eyes of blue, 
And face like morning skies, 

And tender lips whereon the dew 
As on a flower lies — 

Shall I not see her as of yore? 
And if, when night is done, 

1 linger as I did before, 
Here where the roses run, 



22 The Harvest Home 



Shall I not hear her as she goes, 
Nor see her garments wave? 

Ah, no ! in yon neglected close 
There lies her moss-grown grave. 



HEIMWEH 

AH, could it be once more ere life's wan close- ! — 
That I might climb the long ancestral hill 

Where the smooth slope dips to the shattered mill, 
And the shrunk brook amid its alders flows ; 
Feel the soft wind that down the valley blows ; 

Hear in the dewy hush the whip-poor-will 

Thresh the gray silence, and through evening's chill 
Breathe once again the scent of thyme and rose : 
Then would great peace flood all my avid breast ; 

Welcome would be the dusk of twilight skies : 
And as a late bird hastens to her nest 

Through deepening gloom with little happy cries, 
So should I seek the covert of my rest, 

And give to death my sleep-consenting eyes. 



At the Gate of Dreams 23 



THE DESERTED GARDEN 

HITHER like ghosts old memories steal ; 
Here Time forgets his idle glass ; 
About the crumbling borders wheel 
The flickering shadows o'er the grass. 

Forget-me-nots with eyes of blue, 
Myrtle and thyme and mignonette. 

Iris and lavender and rue, 
'Mid alien brambles linger yet. 

There where the clustered rowans brood 
Glimmers the firefly's vagrant spark, 

And in the unfretted solitude 

The fountain murmurs through the dark. 

Yon mossy dial still weds the hours ; 

Light feet that thither used to run 
Now brush the dews from other flowers 

That smile beneath no earthly sun. 

Ah, slender world of lost delights ! - 
Sweet privacies, communions dear, 

Shy whispers in the velvet nights — 
What happy love once haunted here ! 

And still about the mouldering place 

Linger the gentle presences — 
Fair phantoms, each with girlish face, 

Gliding beneath the wistful trees. 



24 The Harvest Home 



Yet even here 'mid ruined walks, 

And growths that clog the dwindling stream. 
And blooms decaying on their stalks, 

The heart renews the deathless dream. 

Somewhere beneath a dappled sky, 
On green slopes pied with autumn's gold, 

While flocks, unfearing, wander nigh, 
Once more the ancient tale is told. 

Afar a swart-armed reaper sings; 

Nearer, adown the hollow vale, 
The music of an anvil rings 

O'er the dull throbbing of a flail. 

And where the river's sinuous tide. 
Dimpling among its sedges, flows, 

With wicker creel against his side. 
Homeward a loitering fisher goes. 

So, while the season weaves its spell. 
And evening sows its early dew, 

Love's troth is plighted: all is well; 
And nature keeps her purpose true. 



At the Gate of Dreams 25 



A PLEA TO TIME 

TAKE, oh, take thy tribute, Time: 
On my forehead sift thy rime; 

Bear me downward, if thou must, 
Slowly toward my kindred dust. 

Clog with age each trembling limb ; 
Press mine eyes till they be dim; 

Touch my brow with magic staff, 
Scoring there thine epigraph ; 

As thou wilt, mar form or face, 
Only grant a single grace : 

From thine ever-mining tooth 
Spare, oh, spare the heart of youth. 

Let the song of Spring's first bird 
With the old delight be heard. 

Still the early rose be sweet, 
While the summers by me fleet. 

Let the sound of rain-wet leaves 
Whispering round the dripping eaves, 



26 The Harvest Home 



Winds amid the growing corn, 
Voices of the breathing morn. 

And the ever-vocal grass, 
Sweeter be as seasons pass. 

So from nature's gentle heart 
Let me never, never part ; 

Let me take my final rest 

In her cool and peaceful breast. 



PETRONIUS ARBITER 

PETRONIUS, how the years have sped ! - 
Gone are the laughing lips and eyes 
Thou knew'st of yore, and round thy head 
Thickly the passing centuries 

Have wrapped the silence and the dust, 
Since thou didst snap life's brittle ties, 
Sated with weariness and disgust. 

The world its hollow laughter keeps, 
Its bootless strife, its wintry pain, 
Its sunless lairs where evil sleeps, 
Its clouded eyes that watch in vain ; 

Yet somewhere there's an infant's smile, 
A maid's soft "y es -" a slave's rent chain 
Proves life hath something still worth while. 



At the Gate of Dreams 



HYLAS AND HERCULES 

In sooth the boy was holding over the fountain an 
urn that might contain a copious draught, hastening to 
plunge it; when they all clung to his hands; for love for 
the Argive boy had encircled the tender hearts of them 
all; and he fell sheer into the black water, like as when 
a ruddy star hath fallen from the sky sheer into the 
sea. . . . The Nymphs indeed holding on their knees 
the zveeping boy, began to console him with gentle 
■li'ords; whilst the son of Amphitryon, disturbed about 
the lad, went, with his well-bent bow and arrozvs after 
the Scythian fashion, and the club which his right hand 
ever used to hold. Thrice indeed he shouted Hylas to 
the full depth of his throat, and thrice, I ivot, the boy 
heard and a thin voice came from the water; but 
though very near he seemed to be afar off. — Theocri- 
tus, Idyl XIII. , translation of J. Banks. 



DOWN the aisle he singing goes 
Where the gurgling water flows. 
Where the swaying rushes are, 
In his arms the brazen jar. 
Never yet was boy so fair : 
Swallow-wort and maiden-hair, 
Parsley-bloom and green couch-grass, 
Kiss his white feet as they pass. 
Now he bends above the tide 
Mirror-clear from side to side, 
Drops upon his glowing knees. 
And his own bright image sees. 



28 The Harvest Home 



O how placid is the pool ! 
O how sweet the waters cool ! 
Ah, how good it were to rest 
In the fountain's flowing breast, 
Nevermore to rise and dip 
With the wandering, brine-blanched ship. 
Hark ! they call him from the strand ; 
So he thrusts with eager hand, 
Through the water-weeds and fern, 
In the wave his bubbling urn. 
Lo, before his witched eyes 
Ivory bosoms flash and rise, 
Faces sweeter than a dream 
Smile upon him from the stream. 
And soft fingers, light as mist. 
Twine about his yielding wrist. 
Slowly, slowly downward sink, 
Lower than the spring's green brink. 
To the fountain's pebbly bed, 
Wondering eyes and shining head. 



"Hylas ! Hylas !" rings the cry 
Through the woodland mournfully, 
Ever startling beast and bird, 
Though no boyish shout be heard 
Answering him whose weary quest 
Drives him onward without rest, 
Up and down this alien coast, 
Seeking still the loved and lost. 



At the Gate of Dreams 29 



Vain thy search, O hapless one, 
Sad son of Amphitryon, 
For the lad shall nevermore 
Greet thee on a mortal shore. 



THE UNSEEN WORLD 

WE never dreamed it was so near, 
And yet we might have known, 
Had we surmised from what bright sphere 
The viewless wings had flown, 
Or seen above her cradled head 
A mist-like, shining halo spread. 

But round her pillowed helplessness 

Some wistful influence 
Wove its soft spell, nor could we guess 
What beckonings lured her hence, 
Till through the fond, enfolding skies 
She vanished back to Paradise. 



30 The Harvest Home 



THE TURNING OF THE ROAD 

THE day and the season call me, and all my blood 
is stirred, 
For kindling ardors mount and strive, and morn- 
ing's glory burns. 
Along the footpaths where of old the autumn crickets 
chirred 
And winter's drifts heaped hill and hollow, where 
the long road turns. 

O happy are the southwinds, and happy are the streams, 
And with the gold of cowslips all the meadows are 
ablaze, 
While over fields and woodlands break a thousand 
flying gleams, 
And faery feet go twinkling down the green un- 
trodden ways. 

Beyond the turning of the road the silvery clematis, 
Wild grape and jewelled columbine uplift a purfled 
screen ; 
And there it waits for me at last — the fate I shall not 
miss, 
The voice that I have never heard, the face I have 
not seen. 



At the Gate of Dreams 3 1 



Somewhere it waits me still, there at the turning of 
the road, 
Love with the laughing rosy lips, pain with the 
clouded eyes, 
Shy fortune with her brimming horn, age spent be- 
neath its load — 
I reck not which, for in my heart the young spring 
calls and cries. 



CHANSON DU MATIN 

MORNING, morning everywhere ! 
Morning on the misty wood, 
Morning on the gleaming flood, 
Morning on the drowsy street, 
Morning o'er the meadows sweet; 
Skies are fresh and earth is fair; 
Morning, morning everywhere ! 

Music, music everywhere ! 
Sad the watches of the night; 
Glad the coming of the light; 
Now a thousand voices wake, 
Now a thousand bosoms shake; 
Hope dawns in the eyes of care; 
Music, music everywhere ! 



3-: The Harvest Home 



TWILIGHT AND MUSIC 

SHE ran her ringers o'er the ivory keys, 
And shook a prelude from them as a bird 
Shakes from its throat a song. 

Then from a mist 
Of fluctuant melody I saw arise 
Green slopes descending to a murmuring sea; 
A conscious heaven, like a love-wreathed face, 
Smilingly brooded o'er the raptured earth; 
Cool waters took the light from marge to marge, 
Doubling the sky, the trees, the fir-fledged shores, 
With tremulous joy in their inverted world. 
I heard beneath the deepening rose of dawn 
The first clear flutings of a dew-wet throat 
Where from some claustral dell, faint as a dream, 
Floated the breath of waking violets. 

The music changed : she the enchantress sat 

With white neck glimmering where the tresses fine 

Flowed ripplingly about her, and her head, 

Poised like a lily, delicately drooped 

Above the nimble hands that wrought the charm. 

Now Spring passed through the orchards, naked boughs 

Were clothed with beauty, love-forsaken paths 



Ax the Gate of Dreams 33 



Grew vocal with the bliss of nesting-time, 

And where her light feet fell the crocus flamed. 

The secret fires that in the dark had burned 

Beneath the sod through Winter's frozen hours 

Shot up in spires of grass and curling ferns, 

While warm airs, balmy as the lids of sleep, 

Lifted the cowslip by gnat-haunted fens. 

A myriad jocund sounds from near and far 

Commingled — the shrill challenge of the cock, 

The plowman shouting to his team afield, 

The clang of smitten anvils, droning bees, 

And sparrows twittering round the moss-grown eaves. 

Again the music changed : a crash of notes, 
Loud, stridulous, confused upon the ear, 
Startled the beauteous vision into flight. 
Through slanted rain I saw the shivering trees, 
Lashed by a tempest, stoop their suppliant heads, 
While through the murky air the tortured leaves 
Went whirling down the blast. Black rolling clouds, 
Portentous, huge, and crammed with fiery bolts 
Sent sudden warnings forth with peal on peal 
Of awful detonation. Pleasant bowers, 
Sweet with the whisperings of old tender tales 
In long forgotten Junes, now stripped and frayed, 
Stared sadly round the ruined borders where 
The broken, drenched, wind-beaten blossoms lay. 
Then sullenly behind the bastioned hills 
Sank the maned thunder-heads with muffled growls, 
The sun laughed out from vapors of pearl and gold, 
And earth breathed peace once more. 



34 The Harvest Home 



Her smooth young cheek, 
Flushed with the hues of health, in purest curves 
Leaned sidewise, and the lashes downward dropped 
Curtained the inward glow of her chaste eyes. 
Then for an instant on the twilight fell 
A silence, while her fluttering hands were stayed 
Above the expectant keys ; till one by one, 
Low mournful notes crept out upon the dusk, 
And autumn winds sobbed round the barren fields, 
And rustled in the melancholy aisles 
Of desolate woodlands. By leaf-smothered streams 
Swayed withered stalks that in the Summer's prime, 
Fanned softly by the night-moth's venturous wings. 
Had caught in fragrant urns the starry dews, 
And spilt fine incense on the enamored air. 
Slowly from out the shadows drew a shape 
Which, thin and indeterminate in the gloom, 
Melted and grew again upon my sight, 
When like a balefire wavered into form 
A death's head crowned with myrtle. 

The pale night 
Closed in at length, and through the dark I heard 
A sound of cradled waters ; far away 
Tolled solemnly a bell; a requiem 
Chanted by hollow voices, rose and fell, 
Ever approaching, ever receding still; 
Cressets whose flames flared backward dipped and 

tossed, 
As if o'er rugged ways by careless hands 



At the Gate of Dreams 35 



Borne onward round a bier. Then at my feet, 
On the dim verge forlorn and unexplored, 
The languid waves pulsed softly; winds blew chill, 
And I awoke to see her upturned face, 
Smiling and lovely, as the music died. 



THE VIEWPOINT 

NOW the cool breath of waking violets 
Steals from dim nooks amid the ancient trees 
Where midges wind their slender clarinets, 
Hour after hour, in elfin symphonies." 

One bell-like note, from some elusive spray, 
Within the shelter of its leafy screen, 

Falls as a benediction on the day, 
Borne down cathedral aisles of living green. 

Ah, haply, somewhere on the springtime skies, 
Through curtains swaying to the sun kissed air, 

A sufferer looks with pain bewildered eyes, 
And wonders that the world should be so fair. 



30 The Harvest Home 



PERPETUA 



PERPETUA, what still remains 
Of thee, fair maiden? With the grains 
Of amber wheat, all unafraid, 
In fragrant darkness thou wast laid. 
And yet that radiant loveliness 
Blooms somewhere sweetly still to bless 
Time's desert paths ; thine April eyes 
In beauty match eve's violet skies, 
While round thy roseleaf lips the light 
Dimples in smiles than dawn more bright. 
Some wizard, chill, compelling love 
A subtle weird about thee wove, 
With hushed fond whisperings of rest 
Breathed softly through thy snow-pure breast 
Then thou didst haste, ere youth was fled, 
To make with death thy bridal bed. 
But thou has not evanished quite, 
For still the heart's tear-cleansed sight 
Beholds thee in morn's streaming rays, 
And in the woodland's mossy ways, 
In grass, in flowers, in gurgling springs, 
In stars, in clouds, in winged things 
Born of the day; thy lyric voice 
Is breathed through all things that rejoice: 
Nay, while thou liv'st in earth and sky, 
Perpetua, thou canst not die. 



At the Gate of Dreams 37 

A BREATH OF VIOLETS 

(In the City) 

A BREATH faint as a dream— then flashed this 
scene 
Upon his inward vision : a clear rill 
Sparkling amid its sallows ; tender green 

Of spring time meadows; light upon the hill; 
And barefoot sunbrowned lads that blithely pass 
'Mid dim sweet dews still quickening in the grass. 

Around him rise the clamors of the mart; 

He hear9 them not ; — above an emerald bank 
The swallows skim ; once more, with eager heart, 

He hastes where shy cool-rooted violets prank 
The brookside, each a pale and hooded nun 
Hiding her virgin forehead from the sun. 

Flushed cheeks and wind-tossed hair, and morning's gold 
On hill and hollow ; for a brief glad space 

He sees them all — till once again are rolled 
O'er him the city's tides; before his face 

A harsh-voiced squalid flower vender stands 

With violets in his soiled, importunate hands. 



58 The Harvest Home 



PLAYMATES 

WHERE the willows dip and dream 
By the iris bordered stream, 
Long ago we sat and played, 
Barefoot lad and nut brown maid. 

Idly poised the dragonfly 
On an arrow arum nigh. 
While the summer's sunlit skies 
Smiled within her azure eyes. 

Oft she caught, on each small hand, 
The "cat's cradle," where it spanned 
'Twixt my palms the narrow space, 
Bending down her eager face. 

Sometimes in the twilight hush 
From the wood the hermit thrush 
Sent his bell-like vesper call 
Through the dusk of evenfall. 

Ah. the days of long ago! 
Still the dimpling waters flow ; 
Still beside the quiet stream 

The gray willows dip and dream. 

****** 

Oh, my little playmate, gone 
With the freshness of life's dawn. 
With its dews and faery gold. 
And its wonders manifold! 



At the Gate of Dreams 39 



Yesterday our casual feet 
Met within the crowded street, 
But I saw no greeting rise 
In your unremembering eyes. 



THE BIBLIOPHILE 

WHAT does he dream there at the dusty stall, 
Rapt like a lover waiting to keep tryst? 
Wide intervals, with cool and verdurous slopes, 
Far-gleaming waters, sudden flight of birds, 
And cloudy lilacs swaying at the gate — 
Fill these the orbit of his inward vision? 
Nay, eagerly yet gently, one by one, 
Pondering he turns each frayed and time-stained leaf, 
Jealously scans the vellum worn and old, 
The while in formless folds his garments hang 
Loosely on his shrunk frame, and his lips move 
As though he conned a lesson o'er and o'er. 
One hope up-buoys him — that on some rare day, 
Some fortunate great day, his hands shall find, 
Carelessly jostled by its meaner fellows, 
And hidden like a jewel in a dust-heap, 
The ancient tome for which he long has sought. 
The wished-for darling of his doting heart. 



40 The Harvest Home 



HOME AT EVENING-TIME 

UP through the purple gloaming floats the tinkling 
of her bell; 
She's crossing now the brook that gurgles down yon 

grassy dell ; 
For wheresoe'er 'mid woodlands dim or meadows she 

may roam, 
At milking-time with lowings soft the evening brings 
her home. 

Where huddled sheep by pasture-bars lift many a 

plaintive bleat, 
Along the leaf-embowered lanes, with twinklings of 

bare feet, 
'Mid daisies gleaming on the sward like glimmering 

flecks of foam, 
The children all come trooping back, for evening brings 

them home. 

Ah, when for me the day is done, and falls the twi- 
light's hush, 

And from each sapphire peak dissolves the sunset's 
lingering flush — 

When one by one the slow stars kindle in night's 
shadowy dome, 

Then from my life's long wanderings may evening 
bring me home. 



At the Gate of Dreams 41 



A QUAKER MAID 

SHE sits beneath the trellised vine 
Beside the open door ; 
Warm arabesques of sunlight shine 
Along the checkered floor. 

Her busy needles wink and glance 

As still her task she plies; 
By bordered walks the midges dance; 

Above, the swallow flies. 

Her face is calm ; her eyes are meek ; 

About her smooth young throat, 
And lightly blown o'er either cheek, 

The silken tendrils float. 

Beneath the snow-white kerchief spread 

Across her placid breast, 
Unvexed by change or darkling dread, 

Her spirit lies at rest. 

Peace is her world ; no thought of ill, 

Nor breath of sordid strife. 
E'er taints the pure desires that fill 

Her cool hushed round of life. 

Afar the city roars ; there sweeps 
The long white way that gleams 

For other feet ; she sits and keeps 
Alone her quiet dreams. 



42 The Harvest Home 



THE BROOKSIDE 

PAST the green fields and the wood, 
Slipping down o'er silver sands, 
Hourly hastes the mimic flood 
To the osicred marish lands. 

Tenuous treble, faint bassoon, 
All day long its strains are heard, 

Dreamlike, far— an elfin tune 
Set to voice of wind and bird. 

When the brooding night is still, 
And the moonlight o'er the grass 

Steals like mist from hill to hill, 
Furtive creatures come and pass. 

Shy furred things with startled ears 

'Twixt the water arums glide, 
And all palpitant with fears 

Lap the clear and cooling tide. 

Oft at midnoon's breathless height, 

Where the pool spreads shimmering rings 

Herons into sudden flight 

Upward launch on silent wings. 

Mayhap here some smiling maid 
Long ago. 'mid summer flowers 

Heard the old sweet tale and strayed 
Back to Eden's happy bowers. 



At the Gate of Dreams 43 



What though fled the primrose dream, 
And the lips that smiled are dust? 

Still imaging flows the stream ; 
Love renews its ancient trust. 



PHAON CONCERNING SAPPHO 

THAT she is fair of face I know full well ; 
Her tuneful lips are touched with Delphic fire 

Hers is the haunting voice of wild desire; 
She weaves about the world her lyric spell. 
When her deft fingers sweep the sounding shell, 

Tis as Apollo's self had struck the lyre, 

Waking to music the immortal choir 
Which in the shining courts of morning dwell. 
Yet, ever to a maid with dove-like eyes — 

A gentle maid for whom dawn peaceful days, 
Who thriftily her busy distaff plies, 

Content and glad in simple household ways — 
My heart turns as the bird that homeward flies, 

Leaving the queen of song to her proud bays. 



-14 The Harvest Home 



AT THE MEADOW BARS 

She. "No, leave me now ; each silly vow 
Will never move my heart, sir ; 
Come, stand aside ! the patient cow, 
Grown weary, soon will start, sir. 
You my unwilling hands may take, 
But thus, sir, you will never make 
My young and sleeping love awake; 
Come, leave me now !" 

He. "O cruel lass ! the summers pass, 
And wane the days of wooing; 
Hearts are more brittle far than glass — 
Be not my heart's undoing. 
What though the milking-time be here? 
Our love-time, Love, is also near; 
Ah, brief love's hope, but long love's fear- 
O cruel lass !" 

She. "The shadows fall, and night-birds call, 

O sir, stay not the milking." 
He. "Nay, Love, but see, the roses all 

Are shed, and corn is silking." 
She. "O sir, the coming night makes haste." 
He. "O Love, but waiting love makes waste." 

She. "Now shame, my kirtle is unlaced." 
He. "But shadows fall." 



At the Gate of Dreams 45 



She. "O sir, be true! — deep is the dew, 

And milking-time is over." 
He. "Ay, Love, love's waiting's over, too, 

And I am all your lover." 
She. "Now let me milk — you've torn my wimple.' 
He. "But, nay, first let me kiss that dimple." 

She. "There! one's enough, dear, don't be simple." 
Both. "Love, we'll be true!" 



ARCHERY 

I SEE them on a slope of English green ; 
Their fair round arms are shining in the sun; 

I hear their bubbling, brook-like laughter run 
From shade to shade about the lovely scene. 
Again through shaggy boles I catch the sheen 

Of flowing tresses, as of red gold spun. 

The hurtling arrows sing as, one by one, 
They cleave the shadows where the targets lean. 
O Robin Hood, when with thine outlaws all 

Through merry Sherwood thou didst blithely rove, 
Didst thou not with thy ladies, lithe and tall, 

Bend the long self-yew in the charmed grove, 
And while the tense cords rang, did it befall 

That round thee, too, flew viewless darts of love? 



46 The Harvest Home 



PAN 

I'LL seek him yet : in some warm nook 
He lies asleep beside the brook. 
Drugged by the spicy gales that pass ; 
His pipe beside him on the grass 
Lies but half trimmed, — just as it fell 
When sleep cast o'er him her soft spell. 
I'll seek him yet: he does not hear 
The bee that drones beside his ear, 
Half buried in the nectared gloom 
Of some sweet-burdened, purple bloom. 
Above him droop the cooling leaves ; 
His shaggy bosom falls and heaves, 
In his deep slumber's quietness ; 
He will not hear me, though I press, 
Through woven bough and vine and flower, 
Quite into his sleep-charmed bower. 
Ah me, how soundly he hath slept! 
How well the mossy wood hath kept 
Its secret old ! The poppied gales, 
Blown softly by, have told no tales 
Of sleeping Pan, while far astray 
His white flock goes this many a day. 
I'll seek him yet : somewhere he lies 
Well screened from peering human eyes ; 
And though his hoof -marks, as I know, 
From mortal sight passed long ago, 



At the Gate of Dreams .47 



Still I will tread the sylvan aisles 
And sunny meadows, miles and miles ; 
I'll follow hard the dragon-fly, 
As down the stream he circles by; 
I'll track the wild-bee from his home 
To that fair place whence it hath come, 
Where, hoarding still their honeyed store, 
Bloom such rare flowers as starred of yore 
The shining slopes of Arcady. 
So I will seek him yet; ah me! 
Though human foot hath never trod 
The leafy lair where lies the god, 
Who knows but by some happy chance 
I yet may rouse him from his trance ! 



CHANGE 

AH yes! 'twas when the surly winds were chiding, 
And all the world was white with winter's death, 
I heard thee sing how in thy heart was hiding 
The spring's warm breath. 

Now summer skies are bending lightly over 

The dappled meadows and the fragrant wold, 
And lo ! where bees drone in the fresh young clover, 
Thy heart lies cold. 



48 The Harvest Home 



THE ODALIK 

BESIDE the fountain's marble brim 
With languid steps she comes to stand 
The snowy swans before her swim, 
And catch the dainties from her hand. 

Her arm rests on a porphyry vase, 
And from the long and heavy plumes 

Of that rich fan which screens her face, 
Float faint and delicate perfumes. 

On each slim ankle and white wrist 
The bangles chime like tiny bells; 

About her, like an azure mist, 

Her fluttering mantle sinks and swells. 

A dreamy music fills the air, 

The fountain tinkles in the sun, 
The watchful swans, with stately care, 

Glide slowly past her, one by one. 

Her broidered garments round her flow, 
And half reveal the charms they veil; 

Within her jetty tresses glow 

The gems that make the sunlight pale. 

Her eyes look far away; she heeds 
No longer those who seek her alms — 

Not e'en that bolder one who pleads 
With beak against her velvet palms. 



At the Gate of Dreams 49 



Lo, as she stands, what sudden flame 
Is kindled o'er her brow and cheek? 

Alas, the memory of her shame! 
She is the favorite odalik. 



AT A BOOKSTALL 

TRUE poet, I have lingered o'er thy page 
With heart a-throb ; among the tattered books, 
As one who, wandering idly through dim nooks, 
Finds a rare flower at last, so, unknown mage, 
I found thee on the vender's stall. The age 
Rolled backward suddenly; 'mid amber stooks 
Ruth gleaned again; in evening-glow the rooks 
Round Camelot's towers swung. The unholy rage 
Of the crass mart died from mine ears; and there 

Dream-thralled, unheeding raucous cries, I stood 
Seeing the morning flame o'er Ilion fair; 

Beaked galleys, purple-sailed, spurned the wide flood 
The Mgean burned; while Helen's sun-kissed hair 
Caught the bright sheen as in a golden snood. 



50 The Harvest Home 



MY HOUSE 

I HAVE a little house somewhere; 
Around it, thick and long, 
The cool grass stands, and nightly there 
The cricket pipes his song. 

The stars, through still and dewy hours, 

Lean o'er the quiet place, 
While fairy hands festoon the flowers 

With shreds of silver lace. 

The door is narrow, rude and low, 

Yet takes the daw r n's first kiss; 
Before it the June roses blow 

And the wild clematis. 

Above its lintel, year by year, 

The sparrow builds and sings, 
And there, on zephyrs borne, career 

A thousand filmy wings. 

There oft a wild, shy music wakes; 

Winds many an elfin horn; 
And there flash into amber flakes 

The footprints of the morn. 

Sometimes when hushed warm noons are bright, 

And shrill the locust calls, 
My rooftree basks in lovelier light 

Than bathes ancestral halls. 



At the Gate of Dreams 51 



I have a little house somewhere; 

Sole tenant I shall be; 
And when at length I rest me there, 

I shall sleep dreamlessly. 



AT FOURSCORE 

THE hours glide tranquilly away; 
I mourn not the unfinished task; 
I watch the placid close of day, 

Nor answer give nor question ask. 
I grieve not for the counsel spurned, 

The broken will, the conscience stilled, 
The long, hard lesson yet unlearned, 
The purpose unfulfilled. 

No Spring can wake the old desires; 

No sadness greets the fallen leaf; 
In ashes of the ancient fires 

Relives no spark, however brief. 
I reck not now the battle's stress, 

The distant cries, the trampled plain; 
Ah, respite after weariness! 

Quiescence after pain! 



52 The Harvest Ho mi: 



THE IMMORTAL 

IT sleeps in the bud and the leaf, 
It hides in the rustling sheaf, 
It quickens the hushed, cool flowers, 
It whispers amid the showers. 

It laughs on the sun drenched hill, 

It sings in the silvern rill, 

It nestles beneath the snow, 

It stirs when the March winds blow. 

Where the braided midges dance, 
Where the wheeling swallows glance — 
It is there ; and it builds its nest 
Even in sorrow's breast. 

From the dullness of clodlike things 

It wakens and finds its wings; 

Though the womb of the dark give it birth, 

It leaps and thrills through the earth. 

When beaten and wounded sore, 
It ariseth, o'er and o'er, 
For it never can perish quite — 
The spirit of pure delight. 



At the Gate of Dreams 53 



WOULD YOU COME? 

THE little pool is there; still o'er it lean 
The watching elms, while the soft summer skies, 
Seen through the braided boughs that intervene, 
Are blue as memory paints your girlish eyes. 

And there the narrow path winds from the hill 
Down to the daisied fields, the billowing grain; 

Ah, if you knew they waited for you still — 
The dear old scenes— would you not come again? 

Come from the crowded streets, the sordid ways, 
To seek the sweet familiar haunts of yore, 

Remembering still those bare-foot, dawn-fresh days — 
Oh my lost playmate, would you come once more? 



THE PLAY 

THE endless mime goes on; new faces come, 
New mummers babble in each other's ears ; 
And some wear masks of woe, of laughter some, 
Nor know they play Life's Comedy of Tears. 



54 The Harvest Home 



SHE CAME AND WENT 

SHE came and went, as comes and goes 
The dewdrop on the morning rose, 
Or as the tender lights that die 
At shut of day along the sky. 
Her coming made the dawn more bright, 
Her going brought the somber night; 
Her coming made the blossoms shine, 
Her going made them droop and pine. 
Where'er her twinkling feet did pass, 
Beneath them greener grew the grass ; 
The song-birds ruffled their small throats 
To swell for her their blithest notes. 
But when she went, the blushing day 
Sank into silence chill and gray, 
The dark its sable vans unfurled, 
And sudden night possessed the world. 
O fond desires that wake in vain ! 
She ne'er will come to us again ; 
And now, like vanished perfume sweet, 
Her memory grows more vague and fleet. 
Yet we rejoice that morn by morn 
The sad old world seems less forlorn. 
Since once so bright a vision came 
To touch our lives with heavenly flame, 
And show to our bewildered eyes 
What beauty dwells in Paradise. 



At the Gate of Dreams 55 



THE DIFFERENCE 

HER plants bloom on the window ledge 
Behind its wicker bars 
Her bird still sings, and by yon hedge 
Her lilies burn like stars. 

Beside the walk her pansies raise 

Their faces to the sun, 
And round her porch, in many a maze, 

The flickering vine-leaves run. 

Her slender wheel has ceased to hum 

Beneath her nimble hands, 
And there, close-shut and sadly dumb, 

Her sweet-voiced spinet stands. 

The doves still flutter to her door, 

And wait and coo in vain; 
And passers-by pause as of yore 

To hear her happy strain. 

But she who, like a fine perfume, 

Filled all the sunny place, 
Lies in a hushed and darkened room, 

With pale and moveless face. 



56 The Harvest Home 



IN MID-JOURNEY 

AN onward traveler, lo ! I stand 
Midway the changed, uneven land; 
A moment now I pause to look 
Back o'er the path my feet forsook 
A brief while since : I see the stream 
Bright in the early sunlight gleam ; 
I see the woven branches spread 
Where late I walked with naked head, 
And felt the wind's touch, light and free. 
Upon my forehead lovingly. 
Hushed are the voices that I heard — 
The laugh of maid, the song of bird; 
And now the flowers forget to blow 
Along the barren way I go. 
No more the glancing waters run 
O'er golden shallows in the sun, 
Or gurgle down the fragrant bed 
Where cool and green the cresses spread 
No dew is on the withered grass, 
Nor shining rain ; where'er I pass. 
The wind stirs with a mournful sound 
The dry leaves in the thickets round. 
In vain I seek with longing eyes 
Some sign within the sober skies, 
That once again the morning light 
Shall wake me to the old delight. 



At the Gate of Dreams 57 



Behind me smiles, still fresh and sweet, 
The land of youth ; with lingering feet 
I turn me to the onward way, 
And the strange landscape, chill and gray. 



THE WATCHER 

LOW hang the clouds, the clouds hang gray and low ; 
Upon the far hills falls the thin, cold rain; 

The stream moans through the fields as one in pain. 
And madcap winds awake and wildly blow 
The torn and ragged vapors to and fro 

About the ruined garden, where in vain 

One desolate bird, again and yet again, 
Lifts up its single piercing note of woe. 
Pour after hour, from youder shivering wold, 

The drenched leaves o'er the sodden meadows fly, 
Till solemnly the darkness, fold on fold, 

Curtains the troubled world from every eye ; 
But ah! I still bend o'er her locks of gold, 

And count each thread-like pulse, each fluttering sigh. 



The Harvest Home 



FORGOTTEN 

A LITTLE mound beneath the pine 
Upon the gradual slope, 
Where wandering tendrils of the vine 

Like tremulous fingers grope; 
There happy birds the livelong day 

Ruffle their slender throats. 
And in the slanting sunbeams play 
A myriad glancing motes. 

A handful of forgotten earth 

Beneath the hushed cool flowers. 
Its backward span from death to birth 

Numbered but days and hours ; 
Yet plenteous tears bedewed the sod 

That wrapt the roseleaf face, 
When breaking hearts gave back to God 

This guerdon of his grace. 

Years wheel like shadows o'er the grass ; 

Dust are the hearts that bled ; 
Rumors of change that come and pass 

Vex not this little bed. 
O sleep that knows no evil dreams, 

O dove-white, sinless breast, 
We, wearying mid Time's tearful gleams, 

Envy thine early rest. 



At the Gate of Dreams 59 



THE SWEET-PEA 

A SLENDER pink-faced village lass, 
'Round whom the light winds, as they pass, 
Linger carressingly, if so 
To win a favor ere they go. 
A fluttering ribbon clasps her waist; 
About her forehead, calm and chaste, 
Bright ringlets blow; her dove-like eyes 
Are pure and deep as summer skies. 
She is a sunny, fragile thing, 
And you may see her blossoming 
Adown some mossy garden way, 
Fresh as the dew, and fair as day. 
What though old-fashioned she may be? 
True hearts still love the shy sweet-pea. 



TIGER-LILY 

WHAT torrid days have poured their quivering 
heat 
Into the hollow of thy slender urn, 
Till now within thy heart, once chastely sweet, 
The fires, of tropic heavens ever burn ! 

Or pale, perchance, as virgin peaks of snow, 
Thou stood'st in stainless splendor, till one day 

A wounded tiger at thy feet crouched low, 

And o'er thy chalice plashed his blood's red spray. 



6o The Harvest Home 



THE CRICKET 

PIPER of the fields and woods 
And the fragrant solitudes. 
When the trees are stripped of leaves. 
And the choked brook sobs and grieves 
When the golden-rod alone 
Feigns the summer hath not flown ; 
Then while evening airs grow chill, 
And the flocks upon the hill 
Huddle in the waning light. 
Thou, ere falls the frosty night, 
To the kine that homeward pass 
Pipest 'mid the stiffening grass. 

Dark may dawn the winter days. — 
Where thou art the summer stays ; 
Though the ruffiian north winds roar, 
Lash the roof and smite the door, 
Thou from hearths secure and warm 
Laughest at the brewing storm. 
And thy merry minstrelsy 
Sets the frozen fancy free. 
Dost thou dream, O piper brave, 
That from his sea-haunted grave 
He who praised thy song of yore 
Hath come back to hear once mOre, 
Through high noons, thy strident strain 



At the Gate of Dreams 6x 



Borne o'er Enna's saffron plain? 
Long, long since the nectared hoard 
That the yellow bees had stored 
In the turf above his head 
Hath by many a passing tread 
O'er the chamber of his sleep, 
In the dust been trampled deep. 
From his lentisk couch of rest, 
In his shaggy goat-skin vest, 
He shall rise no more to hear, 
With the poet's raptured ear, 
O'er the thymy pastures swell 
Morning sounds he loved so well. 
Other skies are over us, 
And afar Theocritus 
Slumbers deep, O piper small, 
And he will not heed at all 
Though be struck thy shrillest notes ; 
Yet a voice like thine still floats 
O'er him where thy shy kin be 
Mid the dews of Sicily. 



A MODERN JOUST 

THE trumpets of the morning-glories sound 
A loud alarum to the brave knights round ; 
The joust begins, and proudly on the breeze 
With lance in rest comes riding down the bees. 



(>j The Harvest Home 



JOAN D'ARC 

ONCE in the fields she watched her peaceful flocks 
Light were her feet upon the sunny hills; 
For her the violets smiled beside the rocks ; 
Hers was the silver music of the rills. 

She breathed fine odors from the woody place 
Where cool, deep ferns were set; above her head 

The summer sky leaned like a tender face; 
Along her path the morning dews were shed. 

But suddenly she heard the wild alarm 
Of deadly war; then from her simple sheep, 

Forth to the conflict and the battle's harm 
She went like one awaking from a sleep. 

Ah ! when the flames rolled round her in the mart, 
And cruel faces wavered through the haze 

Of her fierce martyrdom, — when on her heart 
Thronged the swift memories of other days, — 

Perchance no thought of royal pomp and pride, 
No thought of armies, nor of iron war's 

Torn fields, nor of the men who fought and died. 
Nor yet of stony cells nor prison bars, — 

No thought of these was hers ; but on her ears 
Faint sounds of sheep-bells smote, as in a dream, 

And a fair vision glimmered through her tears — 
Her father's cottage by a quiet stream. 



At the Gate of Dreams 63 



THE TWO PATHS 

THERE are two ways which, every morning-tide, 
Before the hurrying feet of men divide: 
Along one path the pleasant light is shed; 
The birds sing gaily; smiling skies o'erspread 
The happy earth, and the sweet air is rife 
With myriad throbbing sounds of busy life. 
About the other path the mists hang low, 
And darkness gathers o'er it, deep and slow ; 
From unseen valleys sweeps an icy breath, 
And whoso walks there, treads the way of death. 
Two paths there be — one wherein fareth life, 
With patient weariness and honest strife; 
And one where labor finds its sure surcease, 
And haunting voices ever murmur "Peace." 
Go wheresoe'er thou wilt, or east or west, 
Two paths there be — who knoweth which is best? 

A BROKEN DREAM 

ALL night I dreamed of peace, and through deep 
vales 
Wandered where perfume-haunted winds blew free, 
And saw, like summer swallows, purple sails 
Slant o'er the darkling sea. 

The gray morn rose; along the lurid east 
I saw War's torn and bloody ensign float, 

And the swart cannon, like a huge blind beast, 
Roared from its brazen throat. 



64 Tul Harvest Home 



THE INN 

HOW quiet is this mossy inn 
Where weary travelers lie, 
Unheeding how the morns begin, 
And how the sunsets die. 

Here are no sounds of reveling, 

Here is no flaring light; 
Here no fair maids with laughter bring 

The tankards foaming bright. 

The guests sleep long, the lights are out 

No bustling landlord calls 
His serving-men with cheery shout 

Along the echoing halls. 

Who come to this still inn abide 
Through cycles deep and sweet; 

And while the seasons o'er them glide, 
They rest their tired feet. 



MUSIC 

A SHADE of thought lay on His ageless face, 
Till suddenly God said, "Let there be light," 
When lo ! His smile like sunshine streamed through 
space, 
And music thrilled adown the gulfs of night. 



At the Gate of Dreams 65 



THE DAWN OF WOMANHOOD 

WHAT! have my rosebud's petals all 
Unsealed their musky treasures? 
My little maid, grown sweet and tall, 

Now clasps a woman's pleasures? 
Ah, surely 'twas but yesterday 
I heard her birdlike singing, 
And in the fields her childish play 
Set frolic echoes ringing. 

Now all the glory of her hair 

In golden coils is lying 
Crown-like above her forehead fair; 

Ah, how I loved it flying 
Like amber spray about her throat, 

When through the sunny shadows 
She fairy-like did lightly float 

Across the daisied meadows. 

Now little loves on velvet wings, 

Like bees above a blossom, 
Hover with timid flutterings 

About her virgin bosom. 
Her frock creeps downward to her feet; 

Her dreams grow fondly human; 
Ah, one more kiss as child, my sweet, 

Ere I confess you woman. 



66 The Harvest Home 



SILENUS 

SEE the beast on which he rides 
By the dewy forest-sides, 
All his huge, loose-belted girth 
Shaking with his boisterous mirth ! 
Now his rough head back he tips, 
And with pursed and eager lips, 
Swollen cheeks and gloating eye, 
Drains a vine-wreathed flagon dry. 
Hark ! within the hollow wood 
Wake the echoes wild and rude. 
Goat-hoofed satyrs dance with glee, 
And, to swell the revelry, 
Shag-eared fauns the riot lead, 
Blowing each a notched reed. 

So the braying beast he strides 

Bears him on, and on he rides, — 

Old Silenus, wanton, gay, 

Recking not where winds his way, 

If again his heavy ear 

May the voice of Bacchus hear. 

Noisiest of his noisy crew, 

He has sought the forests through; 

In the gnarled and moss-grown trees 

Hid the timorous dryades, 

And from many a fountained glade 

Fled the white-limbed nymphs afraid* 



At the Gate of Dreams 67 



There, where lately passed his train, 

Lie the tender wood-flowers slain; 

And the spray, so rudely dashed 

From yon stream through which he splashed, 

Scattering crystals far and wide, 

Scarce has from the young plants dried. 

Now around yon distant height 

Wends the masking throng from sight — 

Old Silenus on his quest, 

Seeking Bacchus without rest. 

Ah ! the earth with years is hoar, 
But the scene comes back once more, 
And the sylvan arches ring 
With the sounds of reveling; 
Still amid his reeling rout 
Forth he strides with song and shout, 
Through the dales of Arcady, 
Seeking where the god may be, — 
Couched, perhaps, 'mid dusky firs, 
Or, where happy vintagers 
High their osier baskets heap, 
By some wine-press, fast asleep, 
While his tawny pards bask nigh, 
Stretched at ease beneath the sky. 



68 The Harvest Home 



THE CHILD THAT WAS 

WHERE is the child that used to be, 
That knew the small folk of the lea, 
That saw them frisk in the dew-wet grass. 
And heard them pipe when the wind did pass ; 
That knew what the nodding daisies said, 
And why the trefoil hung its head. 
And marked how the violets, purple-sweet, 
Whispered love at his happy feet; 
That caught the inarticulate words 
Trolled by the summer-haunting birds, 
In meadow nooks where dusty bees 
Flitted on honeyed embassies, 
While drowsily their deep bassoon 
Chimed with the fountain's silver tune; 
The child to whom night brought the slow. 
Large, yellow planets burning low, 
And dawn, a world most fair to see, — 
Ah, where is the child that used to be? 

Fled, alasl with the vanished morns, 

With the wind's glad songs and the elfin's horns 

Fled forever and ever away, 

While a care-worn man keeps watch to-day, 

With wistful face and tear-dimmed eyes, 

Ahove the tomb where his childhood lies. 



At the Gate of Dreams 6q 



A MEMORY OF THEOCRITUS 

THUS will I lie, on this green couch of leaves 
Stript from the wayward vine, and while the 
brook 
Beneath its slender osiers sweetly grieves, 
And elfin echoes haunt each shadowy nook, 
I'll hearken how, among the rocks o'erhead, 
The fountain tinkles down its narrow bed. 

Cool in this dim recess the breath of day 

Is softly blown, and from the humid moss 
Thin exhalations rise, that steal away, 
Elusive as a dream; the branches toss 

Their emerald brede above me, and below, 
Far down the kine to lusher pastures go. 

Sweet sounds and odors fold me like a sleep ; 

A wood-bird whistles from its piney bower; 

A maiden's silvery laughter mounts the steep ; 

And dreamily from one tall purple flower 

That o'er me slowly vibrates, censer-wise, 

Fine wreaths of fragrant incense seem to rise. 

O singer who, in honeyed Sicily, 

Long years ago upon some morning height, 

Did'st hear the droning of the vagrant bee, 
And saw fair Enna smiling in the light, 

I'd half believe thou hadst come back again, 
. Should goat-hoofed Pan but pipe a sudden strain. 



70 The Harvest Home 







BY THE BROOK 

ER it slender osiers lean, 
And it's waters purl between 



Banks of moss where violets grow, 
And the wind breathes sweet and low. 

'Mid its rushes minnows hide, 
Or o'er silver shallows glide, 

Pausing oft as if to dream. 

Poised against the wavering stream. 

Here the birds light on the brink, 
Plash their dusty plumes, and drink; 

There where deeper waters run, 
Broad-leaved lilies take the sun. 

By this willow let us lie ; 

It may chance that, bye and bye, 

If we watch and make no sound, 
While the midges murmur round, 

We shall see him unafraid 
Stumbling down the sun-flecked glade, 



At the Gate of Dreams 71 



We shall see his shaggy thighs. 

His puffed cheeks and gloating eyes, 

And his hairy pointed ears, 
Sharper grown with ceaseless fears. 

We shall see him as he stands. 
And with swift and nimble hands, 

From the reed-beds, where they grow, 
Plucks him pipes whereon to blow, 

Notching each with eager skill, 
Tossing each' aside, until 

From some slim and hollow shoot 
He shall shape a pipe to suit 

His wild fancy; then the day 
Shall grow dumb to hear him play. 

Hist ! behold yon trembling bough ; 
It may be Pan cometh now. 



72 The Harvest Home 



THE FAUX 

I CHANCED upon him in the early morn ; 
He stood beneath the vine-roofed trellises, 
All heedless of the yellow-belted bees 
That fumed about him ; in the ripened corn 
The reapers sang, and through the grove of pine 
A clear-voiced neatress called her straying kine. 

With osier crates poised on their heads, and bare 
Brown necks and dimpled shoulders all aglow, 
The vintage-girls were passing to and fro 

Along the dewy slope ; the morning air 
With sudden laughter rang, and on the steep 
The frolic echoes wakened from their sleep.. 

I caught the twinkling of his hairy ears ; 
I heard his eager murmurs, as he plucked 
The purple clusters, and the nectar sucked 

From wine-red cores ; his ever-watchful fears 
Were drowned a moment in the mad delight 
Wherewith he reveled in my wondering sight. 

He stood tiptoe and stretched his naked arm 
To draw the heavy-fruited branches near; 
I saw him crush the glossy orbs, and smear 

His cheeks with crimson ; then in wild alarm 
He heard my stealthy footsteps, and amid 
The wattled vines he swiftly fled and hid. 



At the Gate of Dreams 



He scarcely snapped a bind-weed in his flight, 
Or frailest tendril ; long I sought in vain 
Through leafy glooms, but found him not again 

The dew dried on the grass, the mellow light 
Brimmed all the misty valley, but the faun, 
Fleet as a vision of the morn, was gone. 



THE WORLD'S WAY 

AT morn I heard them say : 
"Beware of him; some day 
He will abuse thy trust; 
Then in the common dust 
Thine idol shall be cast. 
Beware of him; at last, 
Who knows but he may turn and rend, 
Brute-like, the hand of his best friend ?" 

At eve I heard them say 
Where calm the dead man lay : 

"Alas ! we shall not see 
His like again; for he, 
True to the very end, 
Did ne'er betray a friend." 
Thus low they spake beside the dead, 
Nor thought what they at morn had said. 



74 The Harvest Home 



REJUVENESCENCE 

THE warm light streams o'er Enna's sunny plain, 
Round which the yellow bees still rove in vain ; 
Not now, as erstwhile in the golden prime, 
White ankles twinkle through the purple thyme. 
While bearded grass and blossoms honey-sweet 
Bend at the sudden touch of slender feet. 
Long since the blooms fled at the loud alarms 
Of ruthless traffic. In her sun-browned arms 
Bearing her water-jar, no maiden goes 
Where through the sedge the glancing fountain flows 
With song less blithe than hers in whose dark eyes, 
Timid yet glad, love's dawning glory lies. 
The dust long since has mingled with her heart, 
And he whose love she bore sleeps where the dart 
Of the proud Tyrian pierced him in the fray : 
Gone, gone the bliss and pain of that old day — 
The shepherd fluting on his notched reed, 
The neatress calling through the dusky brede 
Of haunted woodlands, and the answering bell 
Where straying kine browse in the shady dell. 
And yet, for eyes that see, these days which pass 
Kindle a splendor in the ancient grass ; 
Still on the heights the ageless wonder shines 
Whore morn and even set their burning signs. 
Yea, whoso keeps his early vision clear 



At the Gate of Dreams 75 



Beholds the footprints of the immortals near, 
And sees their garments trailing from the brier 
Where the light gossamer shakes its beads of fire. 
And there is room to-day for valorous deeds, 
For truth's high ministry to human needs, 
And wheresoe'er love has its trembling birth 
Its wizardry renews the hoary earth ; 
Thus evermore, down morning paths dew-pearled, 
The spirit of delight walks through the world. 



THE ROVER 

OVER, ay, over, 'tis over, 
Gone with its dew and its bloom, 
Gone with the rose and the lover, 
Gone with its light and perfume. 

Over, ay, summer is over ; 

Days for the wooing were brief, 
Brief for the bird and the lover. 

Brief for the sun and the leaf. 

Over, ay over, 'tis over; 

Vanished its laughter and song; 
Summer departs like a rover ; 

Ah ! winter shall bide with us long-. 



?6 TifL Harvest Home 



CHILDREN OF YESTERDAY 

For %vc are but of yesterday, and knowing nothing, 
because our days upon earth are a shadow. — Job viii. 9. 

CHIDE not that these poor lips of ours 
Smile not with yours that are so fair; 
When falls the frost the fading flowers 

Scarce keep their dream of summer air ; 
Our hearts are chill, our memories sad, 

Our laughter is no longer gay ; 
The songs we sing are never glad — 
Alas ! we are of yesterday. 

The skies that o'er us bend their blue 

Gleam not as did the skies of yore; 
The eyes and cheeks of winsome hue, 

The beauty that our darlings wore, 
We shall not see on earth again. 

Our pulses faint, our heads are gray ; 
You woo us with your joy in vain — 

Alas ! we are of yesterday. 

The hands that once our own did clasp, 

With twining fingers warm and sweet, 
Have slipped from out our trembling grasp. 

And lie where lie the quiet feet 
That in the old bright days did run 

To meet ours in love's primrose way; 
Now mists o'ercloud the evening sun — 

Alas ! we are of vesterdav. 



At the Gate of Dreams 77 



O eyes like midnight stars that glow, 

And lips that still like rosebuds ope, 
And ye within whose breasts of snow 

Still carols clear the bird of hope, 
Your freshness, as of morning keep ; 

Gather love's harvest while ye may ; 
But we, ah, we no longer reap — 

Alas ! we are of yesterday. 



AUTUMN 

HER'S is the mellow booming of the flail, 
The flaming bough, the sunset-crimsoned rill 
O'er every field her smoky banners trail; 
She sets her ruby sign on every hill. 

Her garments, drifting o'er the fallen leaves. 
Are freaked with spurted purple of the vats; 

And as she glides amid the amber sheaves 
Her locks flow down in golden cataracts. 

There melts a honey-murmur on her lips ; 

Her throat is tanned, her eyes are sunny-clear; 
She moves forever in a soft eclipse, 

The rustic darling of the doting year. 



78 The Harvest Home 



THE LOST VOYAGE 

OUT of the darkling sunset-sea, 
Out of the windy sky, 
My ship comes toiling home to me, 
Climbing the billows high. 

She wearily mounts the dim sea-line, 
Treading the foam-wastes down; 

Her breast is blanched with the bitter brine 
The spume is round her blown. 

In alien deeps she has dipt her spars; 

She has swept from strand to strand; 
Her crews have ransacked strange bazaars 

In many a sunburnt land. 

But well I know, on this evening shore, 

My ship brings not to me 
The treasure sought, — and nevermore 

Shall she put out to sea. 



TRUTH 

FROM level brows her eyes look straight before ; 
She falters not to seek what lies beyond; 
Her vesture, travel-stained, is freaked with gore; 
From her free wrist down coils a broken bond. 



At the Gate of Dreams 79, 



THE SIDE UNSEEN 

BENEATH the spreading boughs she stood, 
The farmer's daughter, young and fair, 
While shadows caught, as in a snood, 

The tresses of her shining hair; 
She leaned above the lichened bar, 

And gazed, with eyes that softly glowed, 
Where through the opal haze a car 

Whirled down the long and dusty road. 

Upon her vision lingered yet 

A fragile, weary face, gray-veiled, 
Wherein the lines of grief were set; 

She saw the drooping lips that failed 
To hide the pain and discontent 

Still laying waste an unloved breast; 
Yet as she homeward slowly went, 

Her soul was filled with vague unrest. 

Hers not the hours of ease and wealth, 

Of costly robes and priceless gems, 
But sweet cool morns that breathed of health, 

The hushed eve's dewy diadems, 
A sunlit world, a turquoise heaven, 

Calm days with lowly labors rife; 
Yet these, all these, she would have given, 

To live that other woman's life. 



8o The Harvest Home 



And she who fared upon her way. 

Sweeping through summer sun and shade, 
Scarce saws for tears the smiling day, 

But longed to be the farmer's maid; 
Her hateful nights ne'er brought release; 

Each morn anew some venomed dart 
Smote down her slender dream of peace, 

While hope fled wailing from her heart. 



A COLONIAL MEMORY 

I HEARD her footsteps on the stair; 
The silken rustling of her dress; 
And forth there stole upon the air 

The perfume of her loveliness; 
Adown her gleaming shoulders streamed 

Her cloudy tresses, dusk as night, 
And round her brow I saw, it seemed, 
An aureole of light. 

And as she stood a moment, slim, 

And tall and beautiful and kind, 
The flaring tapers all waxed dim, 

Chill sighs went past me on the wind. 
Then woke my heart; and suddenly 

I knew, in that dissolving shade, 
The ghost of a dear memory 

That never shall be laid. 



At the Gate of Dreams Si 



ON THE WHEEL 

HOW fair they lie!— the circling hills, 
Down whose green slopes the summer spills 
Her lavish wealth of sun and rain, 
Of light and dew. Along the plain, 
The errant spice-winds, breathing balm 
And scent of southern pine and palm, 
Whisper amid the rustling corn 
That shakes its plumes beneath the morn. 
Through grassy closes, clear and bright 
The brooks dance in the misty light, 
And one blithe bird, loud caroling, 
Dips in the flood a glancing wing. 
The flowers that bloom beside the way, 
The glistening hedge, the thorny spray, 
And myriad beaded blades of grass 
Sparkle with diamonds as we pass. 
Hark! from the field the farmer's song, 
And answering echoes, sweet and long, 
Redouble round the emerald vale, 
Till o'er the wold they faint and fail. 
Still as we pass on noiseless wheels, 
The changing landscape glows and reels; 
The flaming sun, high and more high, 
Mounts up the cloudless summer sky; 
We catch the shouts of lads at play 
Amid the fragrant new-mown hay, 
And sounds of shrill- voiced grigs that sing, 
And whetted scythes that cheerly ring. 



T he Harvest Home 



Through many a shifting scene we flash; 

We hear the busy mill-wheel dash; 

We hear the shaft that creaks and groans. 

The ceaseless whirring of the stones ; 

Then on we fare ; the clattering mill 

Is left behind, and all is still. 

Ay, all is still ; high noon o'erhead 

A poppied influence hath shed; 

The very insects cease to hum. 

And all the breathless world is dumb. 

Still on with noiseless wheels we go, 

Till in the west the sun dips low — 

Till whip-poor-wills begin to call, 

And o'er the fields slim shadows fall. 

Along our way the midges spin; 

Hushed is the day's melodious din, 

While piping voices, far and near, 

With sweet lamenting vex the ear, 

The forest aisles are still and dark, 

Save where the firefly lights his spark; 

And o'er the marish by the way 

A mist is rising, ghostly gray. 

Now softly glows the evening star 

Above us ; we have ridden far, 

And night is come ; a sound of bells, 

Like sudden music, sinks and swells 

In yonder vale, and through the night 

A lamp shines like a beacon-light. 

Ah, happy inn ! ah, happy guest ! 

How sweet is night ! How sweet is rest ! 



At the Gate of Dreams 83 



AN INCOMPLETE ANGLER 

THE bearded grass sways to and fro, 
As o'er the fields light zephyrs go; 
The reeds nod by the river's brink, 
Where birds come down to lave and drink. 
Upon the wave the lilies ride; 
The trailing vines dip in the tide, 
And countless frogs, screened in the sedge, 
Boom all along the water's edge. 
Here, where the shadows round me wait, 
I'll sit and cast my luring bait. 
Above my leafy canopy, 
The summer clouds float dreamily; 
The sun, high o'er the cool dark wood, 
Smiles down upon the twinkling flood; 
The busy insects round me hum; 
The stealthy herons go and come; 
A butterfly, with gorgeous wings, 
To yon tall flag one moment clings, 
Then with a sidewise wavering flight, 
Rises and flutters out of sight 
Still I my luckless victim bide; 
I watch where frolic sunbeams hide 
Deep in the bosom of the stream; 
I see his burnished armor gleam, 
As round and round the tempting fly 
He circles oft and warily. 



84 The Harvest Home 



Why should a fish refuse to dine 
From such a dainty hook as mine? 
I'll wait and watch him yet. Ah me! 
The day is warm. How drowsily 
The flies drone near! The river flows 
Like sluggish Lethe; I shall doze 
If nature thus my senses steep 
In languor — but . . I . . must . . not . . sleep. 
********* 

Old fellow, are you waiting yet 

To taste my hook? .. The grass is wet! 

How now — the dew is falling ? No ! . . 

Yes, in the west the sun is low, 

And shadows lie around me deep; 

It must be that I dropped asleep. 

Isaak Walton — honored ghost! — 
Didst e'er thus slumber at thy post? 
But see, the fireflies round me flit! 

1 wonder if that rascal bit: 

The hook is gone! — and sneli gone too! 
There's nothing further left to do, 
But meekly wind my idle reel, 
And homeward fare with empty creel. 

CAPRICE 

AH, lover, marvel not the maid, once kind, 
Should wound thee now with words of sudden 
scorn : 
So shifts from change to change the freakish wind; 
So every rose wears, poniard-like, its thorn. 



At the Gate of Dreams 85 



AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL 

OLD-FASHIONED ? Yes, I must confess 
The antique pattern of her dress. 
The ancient frills and furbelows, 
The faded ribbons and the bows. 
Why should she show those shrunken charms, 
That wrinkled neck, those tawny arms, 
I cannot guess; her russet gown 
Round her spare form hangs loosely down; 
Her voice is thin and cracked ; her eye 
And smile have lost their witchery. 
By those faint jests, that flagging wit, 

By each attenuated curl, 
She surely is, I must admit, 

An odd, old-fashioned girl. 

'Tis long, long since she had a beau, 
And now with those who sit a-row 
Along the wall she takes her place, 
With something of the old-time grace. 
She yearns to join the mazy waltz, 
And slyly sniffs her smelling-salts. 
Ah, many an angel in disguise 
May walk before our human eyes ! 
Where'er the fever smitten lie 
In grimy haunts of poverty, 



S6 The Harvest Home 



Along the dark and squalid street, 
'Mid drunken jests of boor and churl, 

She goes with swift and pitying feet — 
This same old-fashioned girl. 



TO A CHILD 

LITTLE hands and little feet, 
O little heart whose pulses beat 
With rhythmic motions, full and sweet! 

Soon — ah, how soon ! — O tender one. 
Shall winter frost and summer sun 
Waste thy young life, as seasons run. 

Come hither, press thy soft red lips 
To mine, before the rude world nips 
The blossoms from the fragile slips. 

Not far away the city lies 

Where all who journey pilgrim- wise 

Close in the dusk their tired eyes. 

Keep in thy heart the morning spng; 
Life's longest journey is not long; 
Sing and fare on, be brave and strong. 



At the Gate of Dreams 87. 



THE TRANSFORMATION 

ALONG the hills the winds are mute ; 
The yellow sunlight falls 
On streams by which the birds still flute 
Their evening madrigals. 

I tread the old familiar path, 

Among the peaceful sheep, 
Nor dream that e'er war's vengeful wrath 

Could o'er this landscape sweep. 

And yet far hence o'er other fields, 

By such a quiet stream, 
The shuddering heaven rocks and reels, 

And wounded horses scream; 

And men, with hate and fury blind, 

And bayonets dripping red, 
Go charging down the poisoned wind, 

Across the mangled dead. 

Yet mayhap there, mid daisies sweet, 
When summer airs blew free, 

Some loiterer fared with aimless feet, 
Nor dreamed that this could be. 



88 The Harvest Home 



LILAC BLOSSOMS 

SO long — ah, so long ago ! 
But the world is not so fair. 
And never such bland south winds will blow, 

Nor such lilacs scent the air, 
As in those old sweet days 

When the feet of the luminous hours 
Sped swiftly down the grassy ways, 
And the meadows laughed with flowers. 

Her eyes were clear as the morn; 

Her hair, like a golden net, 
Had meshed the light; and the pink-white thorn, 

Or the slender violet 
Plashed with the crystal drops of rain, 

Was not so fresh as she ; — 
With the green young spring she comes again 

Like a fragrant memory. 

O lilacs heavy with dew. 

Thy delicate purple plumes 
Bring back the days when life was new. 

And the lanes were fringed with blooms ; 
When the skies bent down with peace, 

And the earth with music thrilled — 
When it seemed love's song would never cease 

And youth's glad heart was filled. 



At the Gate of Dreams So 



CONTRAST 

I SAW his face black with the dust of toil; 
His eyes gleamed white from out the swart 

expanse ; 
Upon his knotted hands the nails were broken ; 
His grimy shirt, wide open at the throat, 
Revealed a hirsute chest streaked with the soot 
And sweat of the foul mines where, in the dark, 
Amid the little dancing lamps, he strove 
And like a Titan wrestled with the earth; 
The mountain's ooze had dripped upon him ; scars 
Where the fanged rocks had gashed him, seamed his 

cheeks. 
Bent, not with age, and shuffling as he walked, 
Spewed from the pit with the new-risen sun, 
He sought the joyless lair he called his home, 
Brute-like to eat, then sink in sodden sleep 
And for a while forget. 

And she who passed him, 
Daintily gloved and gowned, with slender feet 
Tapping their tiny heels upon the pave, 
Nursling of luxury, daughter of content, 
Gave him no heed, save that one delicate hand, 
With scarcely conscious motion, swept aside 
Her garmets lest they touch him. Yet the fires 
That warmed and comforted her tender flesh, 
And made her glad, were fed from that man's life. 



ho The Harvest Home 



A MODERN ORPHEUS 

DULL-EYED he treads the city street 
Where tides of traffic part and meet 
His barrel-organ's iterant strain 
He scarcely hears ; in every vein 
Is deadly weariness; his soul, 
As waves of languor o'er it roll, 
In noise and heat and dust is drowned; 
Yet on he plods his daily round, 
So strong are wonted uses still 
To bind the motions of the will. 
But suddenly he stops, aware 
Of some sweet fragrance in the air, 
Elusive, faint. ... As in a dream, 
Again he watches by a stream 
Whose cool bright waters smoothly flow 
Betwixt green banks where violets grow. 
Then, while his flock about him feeds, 
He gathers from a bed of reeds 
An emerald pipe wherefrom to woo 
A music rare as Orpheus knew. 
The vision fades — by yon grim wall 
He sees a flower-vender's stall, 
And hears the loud insistent cry, 
"Fresh violets ! who'll buy ! who'll buy !" 



At the Gate of Dreams 9 t 



IN EXILE 

BY myriad-trodden ways I go ; 
And yet my feet have known 
Green banks where singing waters flow, 

And musky scents are blown 
From pastures where wild roses grow, 
Past meadows newly mown. 

Now deafening clamors stun my ear; 

Yet I have heard the horn 
Of questing bees wind sweet and clear 

Above the tasseled corn, 
And thrushes fluting far and near 

Through all the golden morn. 

Still in my heart old memories dwell ; 

Cool dawns and quiet eves ; 
Dim wooded paths, a sunlit dell, 

Low whisperings of leaves ; 
Hushed noons that weave their breathless spell ; 

Swart arms that bind the sheaves. 

So, while the thunderous tides pass by, 

And granite canyons roar, 
Somewhere I see a dappled sky 

Arching forevermore 
O'er smiling fields, a cottage nigh, 

And doves about the door. 



c2 The Harvest Home 



A MEMORY OF HOME 
(In the City) 

THROUGH purple twilight still the eye may mar! 
Like slender campaniles, fretted tiles 

And towering chimneys, where the sunset smiles 
Softly beneath the slowly gathering dark. 
A. silence falls upon the shadowy park; 

And past the clustered tree-tops, miles on miles, 

Borne faintly from afar through leafy aisles, 
The homesick fancy hears a farm-dog's bark. 
And now I breathe the scent of clover-fields; 

Through summer gloom the fitful fireflies roam, 
A distant bell makes silvery appeals 

From the low vale beneath its starry dome; 
And lo! o'er leagues of winking lights there steals, 

Dewy and sweet, the memory of home. 



EVENING AMONG THE OAKS 

FLITTING through twilight and shadows, 
Dimly I see, 
With tenuous robes like a mist-wreath 

And pale feet that flee, 
A glimmering shape in the silence. 

And, tossed on the air 
Like a cloudy veil blown from white shoulders, 
A drvad's dusk hair. 



At the Gate of Dreams 93 



AN OCEAN BURIAL 

MY love lies where the wild waves beat 
Above her shell-strewn bed; 
The sands are wrapt about her feet, 
The weeds about her head. 

The calm stars, wheeling through their zones, 

Are doubled o'er her breast; 
The moving waste forever moans 

Round her uncoffined rest. 

Slow through the gloom, with dreadful eyes, 
Strange monsters o'er her glide; 

On gentle currents fall and rise 
The tresses at her side. 

She recks not how the loud winds call, 
Nor hears the sea-birds scream; 

Sea-shadows round her ever fall, 
Sea-lights about her gleam. 

Naught e'er disturbs her sweet repose; 

No fears her breast alarm; 
The silent waters round her close, 

And fold her safe from harm. 



94 The Harvest Home 



IN THE NIGHT-WATCHES 

THOU earnest in the silent night; 
Thy voice was hushed and low, 
And round thee, like a misty light, 
Thy garments seemed to flow. 

Thy presence wrought the old sweet spell 

I felt my pulses thrill. 
As on my brow thy kisses fell 

Like snowflakes pure and chill. 

I heard thee lightly breathe my name, 

And while I strove to rise, 
Upon me dawned a starry flame— 

The splendor of thine eyes. 

And I was blest; the lucid world 
Kindled with song and bloom — 

Till sudden storms about me whirled; 
Down crashed the ancient doom. 

I woke — to know thou still dost keep, 

While weary years pass by, 
Somewhere thy long and hallowed sleep 

Beneath a distant sky. 

For me alone the broken rest, 
Waste dreams that come and pass; 

For thee the calm untroubled breast, 
Strange flowers, and alien grass. 



At the Gate of Dreams 95 



VANISHED 

OH, sweet as early violets fresh with the breath of 
spring, 
And vague and mist-like as the wreathes of green that 

softly cling 
To hillside, vale and meadow, far wood and grassy 

shore — 
So sweet, so bright, so misty-vague the days that are 
no more. 

Down the long years come echoes low of dreamy voices 

borne 
On fragrant winds that wander from the lucid fields 

of morn ; 
The gossamers are pearled with dew, and by the azure 

wold 
A million buttercups uplift their fragile urns of gold. 

There bubbles still the silver brook, the birds still 

sing and build; 
The orchards, bridal-clothed, still keep the heart of 

youth unchilled; 
All is unchanged, save that no more with rustic rod 

and line 
Whistling a barefoot urchin goes where waters leap 

and shine. 



tjb The Harvest Home 



Eager and blithe across the velvet sward he lightly 
lopes ; 

From cloudless skies the sun glows not more brightly 
than his hopes ; 

He knows the haunts of dace and chub, in coverts 
green and cool, 

Where the great willow casts its shade upon the sleep- 
ing pool. 

Ah ! what avail laborious days, the striving and the 

care, 
The empty honors that are won, the fading bays we 

wear, 
If that the heart is dead at length, nor hears the old 

refrain 
Of some dear vanished morning? Oh, to be a boy 



again 



THE MOTHER 

THIS is the threshold where we stood 
When last her lips were pressed to mine 
I saw the pallor of her cheek, 
Her eyes with tears a-shine. 

With joy I turned to meet the world; 

My spirit no foreboding gave; 
Defeated, shorn, today I wept 

By her untended grave. 



At the Gate of Dreams 97 



AN ATTIC CHAMBER 

HARK ! the rain drips upon the broken roof ! 
Ah, many a time I've heard it mid the leaves 
Of the great butternut whose branches swept 
The narrow casement of my little. room 
Far hence in that dear home my boyhood knew. 
What time is it? Seven of the clock, you say? 
Now the red sun beyond the Litchfield hills 
Is setting ; birds are hasting to their nests 
With low sweet cries, while half way up the slope, 
Its windows winking to the level rays, 
Stands the old house which I shall see no more. 
Is't the wind sobbing past the door I hear? 
Oft when, at eve, spent with excess of joy, 
In the cool pillow I have pressed a flushed 
Young cheek, upon the night breeze there has come 
The river's distant murmur, soothing me 
To happy slumber; now the city roars 
Beneath yon shattered lintel, while I try 
In vain to fancy 'tis the gradual voice 
Of that loved stream. 

There is another stream, 
You say, that from beneath the great white throne 
Flows making glad the city of God? — and yet, 
Could I behold once more that winding vale, 
That twinkling flood, that moss-grown roof, and catch 
A sound of children's laughter as of yore, 
Then I could die content. 



o$ The Harvest Home 



O sir, you are 
A holy man, yet still a man ; your heart 
Must surely understand how all my soul 
Longs for that quiet spot far, far away. 
Where in the sunlit garden hollyhocks 
And poppies grow, and all the livelong day 
The bees keep revel, and the butterflies 
Like winged blossoms flutter to and fro. 
How the rain splashes 'gainst the panes! 'tis cold 
This bed of straw and this thin coverlet 
Are pierced with mortal chill. 

A-hungered ? — no, 
I only crave a little mothering, 
For I am young yet. You are kind, sir, kind 
To pray with me, to hold my hand, and wet 
My parched lips — but O ! for that soft touch, 
When gentle fingers, light as summer dew, 
Smoothed back my hair, and o'er me bent the eyes, 
Patient and glad, that made my heaven of love. 
I'm tired now, sir, and I fain would sleep; 
It may be I shall dream of those green hills, 
That ancient time-stained house, that garden fair, 
That smiling stream, and that angelic face 
Which I shall not behold again. Farewell! 
I do not fear; but I am weary now, 
O! very weary, sir, and I would sleep. 



At the Gate of Dreams oo 



THE COMING BARD 

THE world is hungering for him still; 
He comes not, yet the hour seems near 
When dawn the vision shall fulfill, 
And morning find its promised seer. 

Great souls are groping toward the light; 

The nether deeps at last are stirred: 
Dim eyes are straining through the night — 

When shall that new brave voice be heard? 

The earth, grown hoary with its wrongs, 
With pain and feud and bitter strife, 

Shall gather easement from his songs, 
Rekindled faith and nobler life. 

For he shall chant of duties old, 
Of love, and truth, and gallant scars, 

Of fearsome shadows backward rolled, 
Of heavens that blossom into stars. 

And round the pathway they have trod, 
Through all the long dark centuries, 

Worn pilgrims shall at length see God 
In grass and flowers and budding trees. 

And like a sudden bugle blown 

His challenge wild and sweet shall ring, 

Till lips of clay and hearts of stone 
And sodden souls shall wake and sing. 



lot) The Harvest Home 



Ah, mayhap now he yonder stands 
Where tides of traffic part and meet. 

His papers in his eager hands — 
A newsboy; shouting in the street. 

THE ECLIPSE 

(A Man's Protest) 

GLADLY my soul before the pictured Christ 
Above the sacred altar would have knelt 
In adoration, knowing it sufficed 

Only to look on that sad face, to melt 

The iron barriers of sin and pride, 

And all the heart's fast-bolted doors swing wide. 

Thus while the organ's diapason rolled 

Through shadowy arch and nave, each wandering 
thought, 
Each vain desire, each impulse harsh and cold, 
Might into swift subjection have been brought; 
And silent prayers, breathed from the burdened 

breast, 
Have won from heaven the balm of peace and rest. 

Alas, in vain ! the minster's hallowed shrine, 

The storied windows' tints, the chanting choir, 
Uplifted not; for she, with eyes divine, 
Whose downcast lids half quenched their lambent fire, 
Worshipped and sang; while I, stark sinner, sat 
Eclipsed behind her all obscuring hat. 



At the Gate ov Dreams 



DESERTED 

THE cloudy lilacs still o'erarch the sagged and 
creaking gate ; 
For dancing feet that come no more the. weed-choked 

blossoms wait ; 
With sinking roof and shattered panes, and hearth- 
stone damp and cold. 
The empty house stands in its place, forlorn, and gray, 
and old. 

Yet once a bride tripped through that door when life 
was in its spring ; 

There children trooped with shouts and songs that made 
the echoes ring; 

And once — ah, me ! — the heavy feet of mourners slowly 
passed 

Down yon green lane where still the elms their wheel- 
ing shadows cast. 

The sweep leans o'er the moss-grown well for thirsty 

lips in vain ; 
No windowed lamp through deepening twilight twinkles 

forth again ; 
Fled are the hearts that ached, the busy hands that 

toiled are fled, 
Gone with the dews that summer drank, the leaves that 

autumn shed. 



io2 The Harvest Home 



But though the seasons come and pass, and habitations 

fail, 
And life is spilled in dust like wine from out its 

chalice frail, 
Yet love is stronger far than death, and howsoe'er it 

roam, 
Somewhere it finds a resting-place and builds anew its 

home. 



THE FORGOTTEN WAY 

(A Child Gazing Intently Into the Distance) 

ART thou still gazing toward that land 
From which so lately thou hast fared— 
The path still plain where thou dost stand, 
O violet-eyed and golden-haired? 

Ah, would that we, grown old and wise, 
Might see again those shining bowers. 

And rest our dim and weary eyes 
Upon the hills that once were ours ! 

But long since we forgot the way 
To those dear scenes we used to know, 

While ever farther still we stray 

Down the dark road our feet must go. 



At the Gate of Dreams 103 



THE SATYR'S THEFT 

DIDST thou see him as he fled? 
Down this dewy way he sped, 
Crashing through the tangled copse. 
In a shower of pearly drops 
Pattering from the tremulous eaves 
Of the pleached and glossy leaves. 
See how, in his wild retreat 
Through the wood, his flying feet 
Crushed the fragile blossoms down; 
And those matted shreds of brown 
Clinging to yon stunted thorn 
From his shaggy vest were torn. 
It was in the shady nook, 
Where the swift and shallow brook 
Spreads abroad its waters clear 
In a mimic mountain mere : 
Hither she had come to lave 
In the cool, pellucid wave; 
As she leaned to bathe her face, 
Suddenly his rude embrace 
Compassed her; his hairy arms 
Circled all her snowy charms. 
O'er his dusky back and side 
Her dark locks outfloated wide, 
And I caught a fleeting glance 
Of her bosom's fair expanse, 



H>4 The Harvest Homf. 



And her features scared and white, 
As he vanished from my sight. 
Vain it were to follow him 
Through the forests deep and dim ; 
Human eye hath never seen, 
Human face hath never been, 
Where the satyr's lair is made 
Far within some sylvan glade. 
There the wild bee winds its horn : 
There the breezes, morn by morn, 
Bring the balm from unknown flowers 
There through all the poppied hours 
Golden light lies on the grass, 
And the flickering shadows pass ; 
But no mortal foot shall tread 
Where the satvr makes his bed. 



A SOUTH WIND 

A ROMPING wind blew from the south, 
And woke the dreaming wood ; 
It kissed the rose's crimson mouth ; 
Rumpled the poppy's hood ; 

It crisped the waters of the brook ; 

Loosed pine-scents on the air ; 
And round her pallid temples shook 

The dead girl's silken hair. 



At the Gate of Dreams 105 



TACIT.A 

SHE roves through shadowy solitudes, 
Where scentless herbs and fragile flowers. 
Pine in the gloom that ever broods 
Around her sylvan bowers. 

No winds amid the branches sigh, 
No footfall wakes the sodden ground ; 

And the cold streams that hurry by 
Flow on without a sound. 

Strange," voiceless birds from spray to spray 

Flit silently; and all day long 
The dancing midges round her play, 

But sing no elfin song. 

The haunting twilight ebbs and flows ; 

Chill is the night, wan is the morn; 
Through this dim wood no minstrel goes, 

No hunter winds his horn. 

No panting stag seeks yon dark pool; 

No shepherd calls his bleating sheep 
From sunburnt meads to shadows cool, 

And grasses green and deep. 

Across her path, from reed to reed. 

The spider weaves his gossamer; 
She recks not where her footsteps lead,. 

The world is dead to her. 



The Harvest Home 



Her eyes are sad, her face is pale, 
Her head droops sidewise wearily 

Her dusky tresses, like a veil, 
Down ripple to her knee. 

How many a cycle hath she trod 
Each mossy aisle, each leafy dell ! 

Alas, her feet with silence shod 
Ne'er flee the hateful spell ! 



SALOME 

UPON a salver in her rosy palms 
She bears the slaughtered prophet's gory head; 

Proudly, with placid face and queen-like tread — 
Untroubled by a moment's rising qualms 
To vex her maiden bosom's happy calms — 

She goes where azure wreathes of perfume spread 

From smoking censers, and soft lights are shed, 
Round halls that throb with tabrets and with shalms. 
Now, smiling, at her guilty mother's feet 

She lays her gift. . . . Ay, those stern lips are mute 
That erstwhile, all unawed before the seat 

Of kings, did dare proclaim sin's loathsome fruit ; 
Yet, hapless woman! o'er thee doom-clouds meet, 

And fateful lightnings of God's anger shoot. 



At the Gate of Dreams 107 



DAPHNE 



w 



Any signs where she hath been? 
Hast thou marked the trembling grass 
Droop where her light feet did pass? 
By this woodside did she glide; 
In the nooks where she might hide — 
In the dingle, in the dell — 
Hast thou sought the maiden well? 
Haply down the path she fled 
Thou mayst find a tell-tale shred 
From some bramble fluttering still, 
Or beside the shrunken rill, 
Where she crossed it at a bound, 
Spy her footprints on the ground. 
Somewhere she hath stayed her flight ; 
In some thicket, couched from sight 
On brown needles of the pines, 
Laughing softly, she reclines. 
Listen! didst thou hear o'erhead, 
Where the bay's wide branches spread, 
Silver accents faintly fall 
Like a murmur musical? 
Daphne, cease thy vain elusion ; 
Leave, my love, thy shy seclusion ; 
Come whence thou art deftly hiding, 
Come nor fear Apollo's chiding." 



The Harvest IIomi 



In the laurel's shade he stood, 

And his cry rang through the wood. 

Then amid the leaves above 
Sighed a gentle voice : "O love. 
Go thy way — thy search is o'er, 
Thou mayst never see me more ; 
And though, prisoned in this tree, 
I can never come to thee. 
From Apollo's fierce endeavor 
I shall rest secure forever." 



SALVE ET VALE 
(Robert Browning Died at Venice Dec. 12, 1889) 

FRIEND whom I never knew, hail and farewell ! 
On what far vo3'age hath thy spirit gone? 

What darkling tides, mysterious and lone, 
Against thy seaw T ard prow upleap and swell? 
What fine immortal strains have hushed the shell 

Whereon thou mad'st a music all thine own? 

Unto the distant coast whence they were blown. 
What voices lure thee with resistless spell ? 
Lo! from the city's clanging thoroughfares. 

From many a kindly face and friendly door, 
From dew-wet fields, clear sounds and morning airs. 

From alt that thou hast loved and sung of yore, 
Thou sett'st thy helm, and on thy brave bark bears 

Thee to some dim and unimagined shore. 



At. the Gate of Dreams loy 



> TWO LIVES 

ONCE — only once — she listened to the voice 
Of the afch-tempter ; tender was her heart. 
And wiles of sin to her young maidenhood 
Were all unknown; her weak defenses broke. 
And then her world crashed around her. Argus-eyes 
Thronged all the highways, and the hedges swarmed 
With Peeping Toms ; so with her shame she fled 
Into the desert place to shrive her soul. 
And there she dwelt obscurely, giving up 
Her nights and days to prayer. Cleanly she lived, 
Cleanly she wrought. The fresh young morning sang 
Tidings to her of healing, and the dusk, 
Cool-bosomed, pure, breathed messages of peace. 
Thus slipped the years away ; forgot of men, 
Austere and sweet, she walked on life's high slopes 
Alone with God. 

Another woman dwelt 
In splendor where the great city's endless streets 
Throb with the clamor of their myriad life. 
And she was fair, with eyes like midnight stars, 
And jewels blazed upon her smooth white throat, 
And her rich garments rustled as she moved; 
But evil, like a serpent, all unseen, 
Coiled at her feet, and when with venomed fangs 
It struck, struck in the dark. And so the world, 
Unwitting, courted her with flattering words, 
And in her presence bowed obsequiously. 



no The Harvest Home 



Like a proud queen, enriching with a smile, 

Dishonoring with a frown, imperiously 

She swayed her realm. The victims of her lust 

Crept silently away to hide their hurts, 

And made no sign. Haughtily still she rules, 

Glutting desire in secret: fools still fawn 

Upon her ; still her beauty dazzles all, 

But, deep within, her soul is black as death. 



ADAM 

THE chaste young world gleamed round him ; 
Paradise 

All freshly radiant from the hand of God — 

Its dewy ways by human feet untrod — 
Revealed its virgin beauties to his eyes. 
Above him soared the wondrous turqoise skies; 

Beneath his feet rare flowers gemmed the sod; 

And in the east he saw the morning, shod 
With golden fire, behind the palms arise. 
Not yet the Tempter, with his honeyed wiles, 

Had entered earth to vex the peace thereof, 
But spicy airs roved through the vine-wreathed aisles 

And in the laurel cooed the turtle dove ; 
Still, cold and vain were Eden's balmiest smiles 

To lonely Adam — lacking woman's love. 



At the Gate of Dreams hi 



A MAID OF SICILY 

SHE heard the waves creep up the sand; 
Her hair, by roving sea-winds blown, 
And careless of the prisoning band, 
Down fluttered to the azure zone 
Girt lightly round her perfect form, 
And clasped beneath her bosom warm 
Which like twin lilies shone. 

The dew gleamed on her sandaled feet ; 
Her clinging robe around her trailed; 
Her eyes with morning light were sweet; 
And on her brow, that flushed and paled, 
As love and fear passed o'er her face, 
Was throned a rare and virgin grace, 
Such as earth's dawn first hailed. 

Her face was seaward turned; her eyes 

Looked southward, where the amber light 
Was mixed with purple in the skies, 
And one fair hand, to shade her sight, 
Against her chaste young brow was raised: 
And so she stood, and seaward gazed 
Across the waters wide and bright. 

She saw the level sunrays burn 

Along the midsea's heaving breast; 
She saw the circling heavens spurn 



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The utmost billow's tossing crest 
Where, on the blue horizon's rim. 
A galley's sails rose, white and dim. 

And all her blood leaped with unrest. 

She knows that sail; love's eyes are keen; 

She knows yon dancing bark is his ; 
From distant coasts where he has been, 
From Cyprus, Tyre, and Tripoli's, 
Her lover brings the alien freight 
She prizes not: to those who wait 
More precious is love's first warm kiss. 

He homeward brings the cosily dyes 

The Romans love, and nard, and myrrh. 
And unguents which the Emperor buys, 
And silks, and spice, and fruits which were 
Sun-steeped on far Phoenician hills; 
But not of these she recks; love fills 
Alone the happy heart of her. 

So let her watch, while (clearer rise 

The sails which she has waited long; 
The sun climbs higher up the skies ; 

The sea-wind greets her. salt and strong; 
Her robe from one white shoulder slips; 
Her breast is bare ; and from her lips 
Half tremble little waifs of song. 



At the Gate of Dreams 113 



IN ARCADY 

UP from yon myrtle valleys incense curls, 
Blue in the balmy morning; barefoot girls, 
With silvery laughter bubbling, like clear rills, 
Forth from their dewy lips, trip up the hills, 
Brushing the twinkling jewels from the grass, 
That scarcely bends beneath them as they pass. 
Bright robes that half reveal their budding charms 
Flow lightly round them ; and their dimpled arms, 
That bear irt woven baskets fruits and flowers, 
Glow in the sunlight. Yonder are the bowers 
Of Ceres, to whose shrine these offerings 
Of field and grove each happy maiden brings. 
And hither also in the smiling morn 
Come goodly youths with braided ears of corn, 
And stems of purple grapes and pomegranates, 
And shining berries, olives, figs and dates. 
Now let the dance begin upon the green, 
And while the sound of music drifts between 
The pleached branches of the leafy wood, 
Waking sweet echoes in the solitude, 
Let twining hands, light feet, and songs and mirth 
Be joined in Ceres' praise, to gifts of earth. 
And hark! from height to height the shepherds call; 
Adown the hill the laughing waterfall 
Leaps to the plain; the bees begin to hum, 
And in the glen the partridge beats his drum. 



J 1 4 T II E H A RV E ST Ho M P2 



In shady dells, where well the crystal springs, 

The naiad laves her limbs and softly sings, 

While overhead, from out the oak's thick screen. 

The amorous dryad leans to view the scene, 

Nor dares to stir a leaf from place, for fear 

She sink into the wave and disappear. 

Still round the shrine of Ceres, maze on maze, 

The dancers featly foot and chant her praise; 

The incense upward floats amid the trees 

That o'er them stretch their emerald canopies; 

Still from the heights the shepherds blithely call 

Their bleating flocks; the jocund waterfall, 

Flashing the golden sunlight back again, 

Still gambols down to seek the amber plain, 

And spread abroad its waters clear and cool 

That mimic heaven in an azure pool, 

Nigh whose fringed marge a drowsy dragon-fly 

Upon a lily-leaf sways dreamily. 

And Pan, 'mid rushes and rank water-weeds, 

To shape some sweeter pipe, still plucks the reeds. 



THE POET 

THE poet is the heir of every clime ; 
He gathers spoil from all the years of time; 
He reads Fate's holograph with vision clear, 
And sees a rainbow smiling in a tear. 



At the Gate of Dreams 115 



THE KING IS DYING 

FOOL, stand back, the king is dying, 
Give him what little air remains ; 
See'st thou not how his pulse is flying? 

Hear'st thou not how he gasps and strains 
To catch one other stertorous breath? 
God ! how he labors ! yes, this is death ! 

Blow up the fire — his feet are cold; 

Ay, though a king, he cannot buy 
One briefest moment with all his gold; 

His hour has come, and he must die; 
Withered and wrinkled, and old and gray, 
The king fares out on the common way. 

Light the tapers ; he's almost gone ; 

Stir, thou fool, 'tis past the hour 
To cower and cringe, and flatter and fawn — 

The thing lying there is shorn of power; 
Henceforth the lips of the king are dumb: 
Bring up thy ghostly viaticum. 

Absolve his soul; need enough, God wot! 

Mumble and sprinkle and do thy shriving; 
Yet, methinks, here and there shall be left a blot, 

Hideously foul, despite thy striving; 
Nor purfled quilts, nor pillows of lace, 
Can relieve the guilt in that grim old face. 



j iO • The Harvest Home 



Soft! stand back — it is his last; 

Get hence, thy priestly craft is o'er : 
For him the pomp of the world is past — 

The king that was, is king no more : 
Let the bells be rung, let the mass be said. 
And the king's heir know that the king is dead. 



ABANDONED 

O'ER the waste fields I hear the fancied sound 
Of children's voices — laughter and shrill calls; 
Sweetly their clear and childish treble falls 
Upon the evening; bare feet sun-embrowned, 
Bright eyes and eager faces, cluster round 

'Mid deepening twilight, while the vine-grown walls 
Smile back the sunset, and the brooklet brawls 
Along its shallows from the pasture-ground. 
Once more creaks slowly by the laden wain ; 

Swallows on slanted wings are wheeling low 
About the eaves; hints of warm summer rain 

Breathe in the air, and the long shadows grow ; 
But here the children ne'er troop home again 
Through gathering dusk, as in the long-ago. 



At the Gate of Dreams 117 



EVENING AT CAPE ANN 

HUGE rocks, hurled upward by the angry sea, 
Like Titan warriors slain in some fierce fray, 
Lie scattered yonder where the billows gray 
Leap up and smite each other wrathfully. 

Athwart the wet, wide sands the long waves flow, 
Tossing and tumbling in tumultous flight; 
And far away, through gloom of gathering night, 

The shadowy ships on into darkness go. 

Llark! o'er the troubled ocean's ceaseless roar, 
The lonely crying of the whip-poor-will 
Sounds mournfully along the wooded hill 

That lifts its solemn brow above the shore. 

Night reigns upon the sea and on the land. 
Supreme, save where yon beacon shines afar, 
As though, ere its last plunge, a falling star 

Had been arrested by some mighty hand. 

And there forever o'er the restless deep 
Poised as a shining hope, while to and fro 
The home-bound vessels through the darkness go, 

With precious freight for those who watch and weep. 

Ah me ! one eventide, across the main 

Some silent ship shall come, I know not whence, 
From these dim shores of life to bear me hence, 

And never more to landward fare again. 



n 8 The Harvest Home 



Well, be it so; let evening take its flight; 
To sail that sea I will not hesitate, 
Xor question if the time be soon or late, 

If so God's beacon shines across the night. 



WHEN I AM DEAD 

WHEN I am dead, and all life's griefs at last 
Forever and forevermore are past, 
Though still the green earth wheels its ceaseless round, 
While I sleep sweetly in the cool, sweet ground, 
I shall not reck if time move slow or fast. 

But, O my Love, the deathless love thou hast 
Shall move like light above me in the vast 
Dim void of death, where breaks nor light nor sound-- 
When I am dead. 

I shall not reck though darkness overcast 
The summer sky, or the wild, winter blast 
Vex the heaped snows above my lowly mound. 
For I shall lie in silence softly wound, 
Soothed by the memory of what thou wast — ■ 
When I am dead. 



At the Gate of Dreams 119 



THE ENIGMA 

A BABE born in a hovel, 'mid the reek 
Of pestilent vapors, and the sordid strife 
For daily food, scarce knew a mother's care. 
And when the little feet had learned to walk 
In the foul sunless alley where she dwelt, 
Early the dreadful wisdom of the poor 
Darkened her childhood, robbing it of joy. 
Yet deep within her soul some secret spring 
Of heavenly aspiration moved her life 
To struggle ; with the years her strength increased 
Slowly from out that squalor she emerged, 
Grew gracious in sweet ministries, and was blest 
With love and honor and the praise of men. 

That selfsame day another babe was born 

The heir of wealth ; nurtured in luxury, 

Watched and defended, crowned with loveliness,— 

The world its home laid before her feet. 

Then suddenly she lost her fair estate, 

From her high pedestal slipped once, and fell 

Into the vortex, while the world's black scorn 

Closed over her forever. Now she dwells 

In the foul sunless alley, 'mid the reek 

Of pestilent vapors, and from hour to hour, 

Lost and undone, craves but a single boon — 

To quaff some dark cup of forgetfulness. 



[20 The Harvest Home 



GUILELESS EYES 

AS within a crystal well, 
In her eyes the stmrays dwell ; 
'Mid their clear, pellucid deeps, 
Her untroubled spirit sleeps. 
Though the world's wild tempests blow, 
Calmly mirrored, far below. 
The unwavering image lies 
Of the far, o'erarching skies. 
There the happ} r dreams of youih, 
Thoughts of purity and truth. 
Maiden visions of delight, 
Girlhood memories, golden-bright, 
That within her soul are born, 
Linger like the smiles of morn. 
Guileless eyes ! O may the years 
Dim them not with grief and tears, 
May no breath of sin and dole 
Mar those mirrors of her soul ; 
There, as in a crystal well, 
May her peaceful spirit dwell. 



SQUANDERED 

NOT the grim warder of the ebon gate 
Wakes sorrow in the dateless realm of night. 
But the black memory that it is too late 

To win again the squandered hours of light. 



At the Gate of Dreams 121 



A BOOK-PRESSED VIOLET 

WHO plucked this faded, scentless thing 
From that moist nook wherein it grew. 
Kissed by the first mild breath of Spring, 
And fed by April sun and dew? 

Perchance light fingers touched its meek 

Blue petals, as with loving care 
It pressed some sick girl's pallid cheek, 

Or nestled in her silken hair. 

Perchance in language sweet and strange 
It spake what words had ne'er expressed — , 

The gentle love that should not change, 
The hopes that budded in the breast. 

Where are the hands that placed it here ? 

Where are the eyes that bent above 
This yellowing page with many a tear, 

In memory of the old-time love? 

Perchance far hence, in alien ways, 
Her feet may walk because they must; 

Or one by one the circling days 
May glide above her sacred dust. 

And still the Spring comes as of old, 

And still the punctual south-winds blow ; 

In perfumed aisles the buds unfold, 
And on the wood-banks violets grow. 



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And still the birds flute in the boughs. 
Still fields are green and violets blue : 

And love repeats its world-old vows, 
And some are false, and some are true. 



THE AIRMAN 
(Flanders, August. 1917) 

IN the mid-heaven, as the gray eagle soars 
On tireless pinions, watching with fierce eyes 

The sunlit valley which beneath him lies, 
The ocean's weltering waste which breaks and roars 
Against its hoary cliffs, the stream that pours 

Its floods adown the steeps, the light that dies 

Upon the purple peaks, the bird that flies 
Nestward along the river's reedy shores — 
So. high above the battle's thunderous din, 

The far-trenched fields, the shattered ranks that flee 
From the flushed foe, the flames grown pale and thin 

O'er burning homes, he hangs expectantly, 
Till suddenly on the quarry he would win 

He swoops and strikes for God and Liberty. 



At the Gate of Dreams 123 



ECHO'S LAMENT 

HERE in the shadows, on my changeless bed 
Beneath the somber trees, I long have lain; 
Day after day, above my weary head 
The sad leaves rustle, and the chilly rain, 

Slow dripping from each gnarled and twisted bough, 
Shatters its big drops on my flinty brow. 

The tangled brakes decay about my feet ; 

The shaggy moss creeps o'er my rigid face ; 
Afar I hear the young flocks faintly bleat, 
And baying hounds upon the frantic chase; 
But none make quest for me; the years go by, 
And still amid these hateful glooms I lie. 

Ah ! when the large, cool-breasted Night hath drawn 

Her star-wrought mantle from the waking world, 
And on the hills, where gleam the feet of Dawn, 
The trailing banners of the mist are furled, 
Then, O Narcissus, while the woodlands ring, 
Dost thou not miss me by thy silver spring? 

And when, at noon, on murmurous summer days, 
O'er thymy meadows drone the yellow bees — 

When shy wild creatures frisk through leafy ways. 
And fragrant blossoms clasp thy dimpled knees — 



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Then, as thou bendest o'er thy fountain clear, 
And look, and yearn, dost thou not wish me near? 

Deep in this twilight solitude I dwell, 

And as the languid seasons wax and wane, 
I know the thralldom of my stony spell 

Shall ne'er be banished, nor my heart's old pain; 
But, O my love, no lightest breeze shall blow 
About thy path that shall not breathe my woe. 



OX A FLY LEAF OF DANTE 

LET whoso enters here remember well, 
That nevermore with unanointed eyes. 

Shall he to whom the palms of Paradise 
Have waved a welcome, and the streets of Hell 
Flamed with red terrors, walk where mortals dwell; 

Henceforth he shall behold dim mysteries 

In common things, and how men's destinies — 
Love, hope and death — from obscure founts upwell. 
Thus was it that, with vision sadly keen. 

From shadowy realms of unimagined pain. 
From sun-crowned heights of joy where thou hadst 
been, 

Unto this babbling world thou cam'st again ; 
But always on thy woe. O Florentine, 

Thy saint's sweet memory fell like summer rain. 



At the Gate of Dreams 125 



THE TYRIAN'S MEMORY 

WHAT stars were kindled in the skies, 
What blossoms bloomed, what rivers ran, 
I know not now ; how wide the span 
Of years which dimly stretch between 
That morn I saw the big sun rise, — 
Blinking upon the dazzling sheen 
Of banners in the Grecian van, — 
And this, no tongue shall tell, I ween. 

On helm and shield, on sword and spear, 
The sun shone down exultingly ; 
No son of Tyre knew how to flee 
Before the face of any foe, 
Nor would our women shed a tear, 

Though face to face with speechless woe, 
And heart to heart with misery; 
For fear a Tyrian could not know. 

There came the sound of clashing arms, 
Of catapults and falling stones. 
Of shouts and shrieks, and stifled groans, 
While men stood on the crumbling wall, 
And recked not of the dire alarms, 

But saw their brave compatriots fall 
And heard the crunching of their bones, 
Then closed with death, unheeding all. 



126 The Harvest Home 



I know not how the battle fared, 

Though Tyre, "the ocean queen," is dead, 
And lowly lies her crownless head, 
Amid the ashes of her pyre. 
Few were the warriors that were spared 
The spear, the flying dart, the fire ; 
Into my heart an arrow sped — 
My eyes were closed on falling Tyre. 

I have forgot how tenderly 
The olive ripened on the hill ; 
How sweetly, when the nights were still. 
The nightingale sang in the grove; 
How soft the moon was on the sea, 

How low the mourning of the dove ; 
For my dead heart no memories thrill, 
Save the glad memory of love. 

O, like the footsteps of the morn 

Her footsteps gleamed along the street: 
Her shining, foam-white, sandaled feet 
Fell lightly as the summer rain 
On stones which grosser feet had worn; 
And, but my heart so long has lain 
In ashes, it would wake and beat 
At thought of meeting her again. 

Her hair was dark as Egypt's night; 
Her breasts shone like twin nenuphars; 
Her brave eyes burned like Syrian stars 
That morn she pressed her lips to mine, 



At the Gate of Dreams 127 



And bade me forth unto the fight; 

My blood shot through my veins like wine 
I felt myself another Mars — 

In thew, in life, in love divine. 

Who knows that on the emerald zone 
Which belts the changeless azure sea 
Another city yet may be, 

More fair than Tyre? Nathless, I wis, 
Howe'er the phantom years have flown. 
The wrinkled world must ever miss 
That Tyrian maid who gave to me 
Her first, her last, her farewell kiss. 



THE TRAVELER 

WHEN in the dark we slowly drift away 
O'er unknown seas, and busy thoughts at last 

Are quieted, and all the cares are past 
That, bandit-like, infest the realms of day— 
To what pale country does the spirit stray? 

Within what wan-lit land, what region vast, 

Does this strange traveler journey far and fast, 
Till in the east the day breaks, cold and gray? 
Ah, tell me, when we slumber, whither goes, 

And whence at waking comes, the silent guest, 
Whose face no man hath seen, whom no man knows — 

The dim familiar of each human breast? 
Behold, at length, when day indeed shall close, 

Will this uneasy traveler, too, have rest? 



The Harvest Home 



BACCHUS 

COME, satyrs, from the arbored vine ; 
Silenus, leave the shady wood; 
And quit, O Pan, the reedy flood. 
And those shrill, silly pipes of thine. 

Ho ! shepherds, leave beside the spring 
The chaste, cold nymph, and on the hill 
Thy nibbling flocks let rove at will ; 

Come down to laugh, and dance and sing. 

Here lissome maids, with lifted arms 
And dangled clusters, lightly trip ; 
Here laughter wreathes each rosy lip ; 

Here beauty half unveils her charms. 

Ye know me well ; my stained mouth 
My rounded limbs, my tangled hair, 
My supple body, smooth and fair, 

My cheeks like summers of the south; 

I am the vintage god; I go 
Where'er the grape's blood gurgles through 
The fat-ribbed press. O merry crew, 

Come while the purple vats o'erflow ! 



At the Gate of Dreams 129 



A HUNDRED YEARS 

SHE stands beside the sylvan stream, 
The chief's one daughter, lithe and fair, 
And, as she stands, a last late gleam 
Of light lies tangled in her hair. 

The boughs droop down above her face, 
The grasses kiss her naked feet, 

And one tall reed leans from its place, 
To touch her bosom warm and sweet. 

Behind her lies the quiet camp, 
Before her the calm waters flow, 

She sees the firefly light its lamp, 
She hears the night-wind, faint and low. 

The sunset dies upon the hill, 

The valley fades in deepening gloom. 

But where she stands, her presence still 
Sheds on the shadows light and bloom. 

She looks away into the west, 
Her eyes brim o'er with happy light, 

A song upbubbles from her breast, 
She scarcely heeds the falling night. 

But hark! a paddle softly dips; 

A swift hand thrusts the leaves apart; 
The song is hushed upon her lips, 

While sudden tumult shakes her heart. 



130 The Harvest Home 



For lo ! he stands before her now — 
Her lover, young and strong and brave. 

Above whose dark and fearless brow 
The plumes of eagles proudly wave. 

A hated warrior's valiant son. 

Though years of feud have sundered wide 
His sire from hers, has wooed and won 

The dusky maiden for his bride. 

A clinging kiss, a passionate word, 
A lingering doubtful look behind: 

Low pleadings that are hardly heard. 
And eyes with tears confused and blind. 

Then silent steps that do not pause ; 

Then long light dippings of an oar; 
A boat into the darkness draws, 

And fades from sight forevermore — 

Fades and is gone : a hundred years 

Have passed since that dim summer night 

When, half in trumph, half in tears, 
These lovers vanished out of sight. 

And now beside that self-same stream. 
With many a clustering bough above, 

I lie and dream a world-old dream, 
Beneath the eves of her I love. 



At the Gate of Dreams 131 



AFTER A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO'S 

SOFTLY, passer, softly tread, 
Here lies Timas who is dead; 
Ere her bridal robe was made, 
For the tomb she was arrayed. 
When she died, with tender care 
All the virgins dressed their hair, 
Reaping from each lovely head 
Curls for strewments o'er her bed. 



THE NIGHT-ANGEL 
(For a Picture) 

ANGEL of the dark — through vistas dim, 
O'erhung with purple shadows of the night, 
Where swarming stars like multitudinous bees 
Hum round the vast and hollow arch of heaven — 
On tireless pinions thou dost ever sweep, 
Secure from change. Me time shall surely bear 
To falling limbs, scant breath, and eyes that peer 
Through mists which gather in the evening fields— 
But thou shalt ever spread thy flowing robes, 
Spangled with constellations never quenched, 
About thy fresh young form, and evermore 
Thine arms outstretched shall sift from rosy palms 
The dews that slake a million thirsty blooms. 
When earth to her warm bosom shall receive 



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The mold that once hath wrapt this vital spark — 

As embers hid in ashes on the hearth — 

When reels m} r forehead dustward, thou shalt be 

Fair as that hour when first thy gemmy brow 

Took the cool kisses of the twilight breeze, 

And all the naked world did welcome thee. 

Let me grow old and die — it shall be well ; 

Though I forget love's steadfast eyes that burn 

Like planets in their spheres., and love's sweet lips 

Whose music jangling voices cannot vex, 

I shall remember in the scented gloom. 

Where flowers braid their roots, that thou dost keep 

Thy flight along the highways of the dusk 

Forever lovely, and I shall be glad. 



OPPORTUNITY 

WITH rustling wings she swept from heaven and 
stood 
Beside me where I loitered in the way. 
Her brow was calm, and in her outstretched hand 
She bore a gift — a virgin bud that blushed 
Disparting its green sheath. The restless motes 
Danced round me in the shimmering light, the while 
I wantoned through the day. She spake no word, 
But paused a little space and looked at me 
With silent scorn ; then plumed her shining vans 
In sudden flight, nor ever came again. 



At the Gate of Dreams 133 



SANBENETTO 

AND will ye clothe us thus in shame? 
Think ye the scarlet vestures meet? 
Shall they not perish in the flame 
That shall be kindled at our feet? 

Yea, shall these hateful robes withstand 
The fiery floods that, high and higher, 

Shall round us roll, as with fierce hand 
Ye thrust the roaring fagots nigher? 

Or, who shall say that — while ye cry 
Down, Antichrist!" and mock the sight 

Of our last sufferings — as we die, 
These may not change to robes of light? 



ATAVISM 

AY, it was so, to the dusk river-side 
Glided an Indian girl, lithe as a fawn, 
The while, half-naked, bow in hand I crouched 
Low in the rushes, stirring not a leaf 
And scarcely breathing, as she softly stept 
Into her slim canoe and shot it forth 
Straight as an arrow on its noiseless path; 
Then mist and darkness quenched her like a star, 
And all my wild heart's longing followed her. 
This was a thousand years ago, and yet 
My blood leaps with the flame of that old love. 



134 The Harvest Home 



THE NEW POET 

HE comes not, though we tarry long; 
He comes not — and the noon is near 
The anxious world awaits his song; 
Men hush their very hearts to hear. 

The morning, pearled with dew and rain, 
In raiment light as mists that pass, 

Peered tiptoe through her vines in vain 
To see his footsteps star the grass. 

And still the orphaned hours take wing; 

The languid earth can scarce rejoice 
Mid buds that blow and birds that sing, 

Lacking the witchery of his voice. 

Yet we may pass him where he stands 
Smiled on by the benignant skies. 

Fresh daisies in his sun-browned hands — 
A homeless lad with dreamv eves. 



ON THE REVIVAL OF THE ELIZABETHANS 

NEW voices twittering in the ear of Time 
Hush the full-throated songs we knew of yore 
But morn returns again, as in its prime. 
To wake the old sweet minstrelsy once more. 



At the Gate of Dreams 135 



IMOGEN IN THE CAVE OF BELARIUS 

"I am sick still, heartsick. Pisanio, 
I'll now taste of thy drug." — Cymbeline. 

WHAT is this that o'er me steals — 
Death, or death's sweet counterfeit; 
What is this my bruised heart feels 

That medicines the grief of it? 
Softly, softly let me lie, 
If I sleep, or if I die. 

Not the obscene things of night 

Beat with bat-like wings the gloom — 

Seraphs in hushed downward flight 
Narrow towards my rocky room ; 

And the head of each fair one 

Wears a halo like the sun. 

Exhalations from the grave 

Steep not yet my closing eyes ; 
Round this ribbed and flinty cave 

Very dew of heaven lies ; 
And cool strewments, fresh as May, 
Keep the virgin smiles of day. 

Sad and weary was I grown— 

Peace the dove now warms my breast ; 
Wintry winds have on me blown — 

Zephyrs now breathe round my rest ; 
At my feet and at my head 
Gentle warders watch my bed. 



136 The Harvest Home 



And. if haply, lying here. 

To me he should somehow come, 
O'er me he might shed a tear 

For the orphaned lips struck dumb ; 
Or, in memory of past bliss, 
On my forehead lay his kiss. 

But I reck not what may be; 

Couched within this crypt-like place, 
Let the furred moss cover me, 

Ruddocks mask with leaves my face 
Softly, softly shall I lie, 
If I sleep, or if I die. 



THE PROPHET'S END 

BETTER to hide the weary face awhile; 
Better to let them have it as they will ; 

They would but mock thee, scourge thee, harry still 
Thy tired soul ; go, cease thee from thy toil. 
Flee from these dim vain ways where millions moil, 

And wrangle for a bauble; let them fill 

Each other's restless lives with strenuous ill — 
Thou shalt be free at last from strife and guile. 
Go to thy mother, child, and take thy sleep ; 

Go, lay thee, silent, in her cool wide arms ; 
Secure from troublous time, in her large keep 

Thou shalt lie peaceful 'mid the world's alarms ; 
Go, get thee to thy mother-earth, and creep 

Into her bosom, where no evil harms. 



At the Gate of Dreams 137 



EVOLUTION 

THE dull brute reveled in primeval slime ; 
Then to a naked soul the Lord said, ''Go, 
Dwell yonder in that groveling flesh till time 

O'er the sloped forehead make love's whiteness flow." 

So to the beast went down the unclothed soul. 
Abode in twilight, wallowed in the mire, 

Writhed in the serpent, burrowed with the mole, 
Till the dim eons waked it to aspire. 

Then up through tortuous shapes it rudely grew, 
Saw the long night expand into the day. 

Found its own self, and round it slowly drew 
A human vestment from the sullen clay. 

And still it grows past what the eye can see ; 

Climbs austere peaks of hope to breathe Heaven's air 
Above the refuse of mortality, 

Xor frets to know what form it yet shall wear. 



JOHN DAVIDSON 

HE walked unheeded mid the motley throng ; 
He sang betimes, but none would give him ear 
Death, passing, touched his lips and hushed his song, 
When lo! too late the world awoke to hear. 



E38 The Harvest Home 



THE LAST SHELTER 

THE light of hope dawned in her girlish eyes, 
As morning smiles in the pellucid skies — 
O bliss of life! 

A shadow fell, hope's light died in eclipse, 
And hands of flame to anguish touched her lips — 
O bane of love ! 

Now in the inviolate dark she lies at rest, 
While tides of peace brood o'er her tranced breast- 
O longed-for night! 

In vain the world's shrill blasts above her rave, 
Rumors of shame sweep harmless round her grave- 
CD friendlv death ! 



RECOMPENSE 

CHILL is the hollow dark, 
And the night long, 
Still the dawn cometh, hark ! 
Somewhere a song. 

Rough is the way we go, 
And the heart sore, 

Still the night cometh, lo ! 
Rest lies before. 



At the Gate of Dreams 139 



A ROMAN QUEEN 

IMPERIOUS on her ebon throne 
She sits, a queen, in languid ease ; 
Her lustrous locks are loosely blown 

Back from her brow by some stray breeze 
Lost in that vast, bright hall of state, 
Where thronging suppliants fear and wait. 

A dreamy fragrance, fine and rare, 

Of sandal, nard and precious gum, 

With balmy sweetness fills the air, 

And mingles with the incense from 

A quaint and costly azure urn, 

Where Indian spices ever burn. 

A jeweled serpent, wrought in gold, 

Coils round her white and naked arm ; 
Her purple tunic, backward rolled, 
Reveals the full and regal charm 
Of her fair neck and ivory breast, 
Half veiled beneath her broidered vest. 

Her eyelids droop upon her eyes, 

And curtained by the silken lash, 
The smouldering fire that in them lies 
Is scarcely seen, save when a flash, 
Like that which lights the polar snow, 
Gleams from the dusky depths below. 

Her proud, cold lips are lightly wreathed 

In smiles, as if with high disdain 



[40 The Harvest Home 



She scorns to show her hate is sheathed. 
And that he sues not all in vain 
For favors of her haughty will, 
Or e'en love's rarer guerdon still. 

He stands before her white and fierce; 

His bosom with swift passion shakes: 
His burning vision seeks to pierce 
Her very soul ; he pleads ; he wakes 
Within her heart a wild desire. 
That flames and mounts like sudden fire. 

A subtle glance, a whispered word, 
A waving of her perfumed hand, 
He feels his secret prayer is heard — 
That she will know and understand; 
The queen is hid, and for a space 
A iove-swayed woman holds her place. 

He bows, he leans toward the throne ; 
Her breath is warm upon his cheek : 
She murmurs, and in every tone 

He hears the love she dares not speak ; 
What though the surging hundreds press ? 
Xo eye shall see her swift caress. 

Let him beware, he toys with fate ; 
False as the glittering serpent is 
On her white arm, her love to hate 
Shall change eftsoons ; then every kiss 
She gives him with her fickle breath 
Shall be surcharged with secret death. 



At the Gate of Dreams 141 



SONG FOR THE SLAIN 

LIFT and drift, O mists, away ; 
River, sing amid thy reeds ; 

Break, O silver light of day, 
And across the dewy meads 
On the grasses and the weeds 

Make their million jewels gleam; 

Tip the waves on every stream 
With thy swift and sudden fire, 

And, where leaves of forests dream. 
Strike the wind's invisible lyre, 
Wake the morning's winged choir, 

Till the raptured earth shall be 

Drenched with showers of melody. 

O how good it is to live ! 

O how sweet this vital breath! 
Precious are the days that give 

Warm release from winter's death, 
Till with every bud set free 
On the south-kissed shrub and tree, 

And with every springing flower 

Fed by April sun and shower, 
In our own hearts blossom fair 
Hopes we never knew were there. 

Still our joy is mixed with pain 
For the faces that are fled — 

O the spring breathes all in vain 
O'er the barrows of our dead! 



i^j The Harvest Home 



The}- shall never waken more 
To the battle's sullen roar. 
To the smoke and lurid flash. 
To the frenzied shout and clash. 
'Round them never shall again 
Tides of combat sweep the plain. 
Whistling shot and screaming shell : 
Flames that seem to leap from hell ; 
Gory hoofs of many a steed 
Trampling wounded men who plead, 
Shriek, and pray while none take heed : 
Muddy streams whose waters flow 
Bloody-dark, and thick and slow ; 
Upturned faces here and there, 
Bearded, bronzed, or young and fair. 
Now grown strangely still and white 
While around them swells the fight ; 
Tattered flags and scattered arms ; 
Fleeing men whom vague alarms, 
Seizing in the conflict's surge, 
To some hidden refuge urge — 
From such scenes their eyes are sealed ; 
Death has won and holds the field. 

Never shall the bugle-sound 

Call them from their sleep profound, 

To behold with smoke-dimmed eyes 

How a comrade falls and dies, 

Smitten by the leaden hail, 

Or the cannon's iron flail. 

From the cheerful bivouac fires ; 



At the Gate of Dreams 143 



From home-songs and home-desires ; 
From the dark and silent camp: 
From the night-mists, chill and damp ; 
From soft dreams of child and wife — 
Of the old and happy life — 
Of the pasture-lands of home 
Where the tranquil cattle roam — 
Of the brawling brook where played 
Barefoot urchins in the shade — 
Of the dear, mild mother's face 
That bent o'er them in the place 
Where their childish prayers were said 
When the joyous day had fled — 
Of the maid whose timid eyes 
Smiled through tears her fond replies 
To the questions old and sweet, 
While the blossoms at her feet 
(Fragrant still in memory) 
Were not half so fair as she — 
From such dreams they shall not start, 
With fierce tuggings at the heart, 
Still the weary march to share, 
Or into the battle's blare 
With a wild and nameless pain 
Go to slay and to be slain. 

Let them rest where nodding clover 
Covers husband, friend and lover, 
Where the long cool grass leans over, 

And the stars their watches keep ; 
Where with drowsy murmurings 



[44 The Harvest Home 



Haunt the bees with tireless wings ; 
Where all night the cricket sings, 
Let them sleep. 

No more shall the loud alarms 

From their grassy tents on the hill 

Summon the sleepers to arms : 
But the sunshine, warm and still, 

Shall sift through the fronded palm. 
From the blue-domed southern sky. 

To nestle through hours of calm 

O'er the sod where the brave ones lie, 
Unknown in their narrow bed, 

Asleep with the world's great dead. 

And O, bend low, ye North's pale skies. 

O'er many a humble stone 
That marks where some true man lies 

Till the angel's trump be blown ; 
To-day as in love bend low ! 

Soft be the suns and the showers. 
And light be the winds that blow. 

Over these heroes of ours. 

Ah ! Memory, let the world forget 

Her deeds of darkness and of shame, 
But while the sun shall rise and set, 

A thousand thousand years the same, 
Keep bright the glory and renown 

Of those who fought by land and sea, 
Brave men who laid their brave lives down, 

That man might still be free. 



At the Gate of Dreams 145 



Ye widowed hearts, your bitter tears 
Through all the long and lonely years 
God hath regarded, for He hears 

The troubled when they cry; 
Your loss becomes the world's rich gain ; 
Henceforth above your noble slain 
The seed once sown in tears and pain 

Shall bloom in liberty. 



A SEA GRAVE 

YEA, rock him gently in thine arms, O deep I 
No nobler heart was ever hushed to rest 

Upon the chill, soft pillow of thy breast — 
No truer eyes didst thou e'er kiss to sleep. 
While o'er his couch the wrathful billows leap, 

And mighty winds roar from the darkened west, 

Still may his head on thy cool weeds be pressed, 
Far down where thou dost endless silence keep. 
Oh, when, slow moving through thy spaces dim, 

Some scaly monster seeks its coral cave, 
And pausing o'er the sleeper, stares with grim 

Dull eyes a moment downward through the wave, 
Then let thy pale green shadows curtain him, 

And swaying sea-flowers hide his lonely grave. 



146 The Harvest Home 



REQUIESCAT 

SHE sleeps, and may her peaceful rest 
Unbroken be ; 
The flowers that nod above her breast 

She can not see ; 
To warbling bird, to purling brook. 

Deaf are her ears ; 
Sealed is the volume of the book 

Of her brief years. 
So let her rest ; she will not heed 

The tales they tell ; 
She recks not now of word or deed — 

She slumbers well. 



A NOVEMBER GRAVE 

The gray clouds gather, fold on fold, 
Above the blurred and dripping wold ; 
The light is growing pale and cold, 

And ghostly mists steal o'er the plain. 
A robin in the elm is crying; 
About the eaves the wind is sighing; 
O dismal day! my heart is lying 

In yon fresh grave drenched with the rain. 



At the Gate of Dreams 147 



JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING 

PRETTY Annie Atherton (why is her face so pale?) 
Stands on the rocky headland yonder, watching 
for a sail; 
The sky is gray and lowering, all night the wind has 

blown, 
And round the dreary shore the breakers moan, and 
moan, and moan. 

She has not slept through all the hours — her heart has 

ached with fears, 
And in her lonely chamber she has sat, and through 

her tears 
Has watched for tardy dawn to light at last the 

darkened east; 
And now the morn is come, and still the tempest has 

not ceased. 

'Twas yestereve she lightly laughed and said a blithe 
"good-bye" — 

The wind was soft, the sea was calm, and cloudless 
was the sky; 

Ah, how the storm-rack suddenly drave o'er the shud- 
dering sea! 

God pity those brave toilers now, wherever they may 
be! 



148 The Harvest Home 



Pretty Annie Atherton — she heeds not how her hair 
Is rudely tossed and tangled on the gusty headland 

there ; 
She heeds not how the salt wind smites, nor how her 

gown is blown ; 
She only hears the cruel breakers moan, and moan, 

and moan. 

O'er all the deep the white-caps leap : "O love," her 

brave heart cries, 
"I wait thee as I promised thee" — the wind alone 

replies ; 
Yet see ! a sudden sail speeds up the offing, dim and 

gray— 
O'er all the deep the white-caps leap — alas ! 'tis flying 

spray. 

Pretty Annie Atherton — her eyes with mist are blind ; 
The breakers moan — she does not hear the swift light 

step behind; 
He nearer draws — the wind is harsh, and heavy are 

her ears ; 
Now fold and hold her close, strong arms — love, kiss 

away love's fears. 

A WIFE 

NO angel she; she hath no budding wings; 
No mystic halo circles her bright hair; 
But lo! the infinite grace of little things, 

Wrought for dear love's sake, makes her very fair. 



At the Gate of Dreams 149 



THE BURDEN OF JEDON 

WHEN the twilight, cool and dim, 
Wraps the hushed, leaf-curtained limb, 
While the slant rays of the sun 
Climb the branches one by one, 
Till each topmost bough, like fire, 
Upward shoots its slender spire, 
Then I grieve, and hear again 
The faint sobbing of my slain. 

Doomed to beat with pinions bright 
'Round the dazzling fields of light, — 
Every troubled cry I make 
(Lest my burdened heart should break) 
Heard of shepherds o'er and o'er 
As a song and nothing more,— 
To the night I turn for peace 
And my sorrow's brief surcease. 
Yet whene'er I fold my wings, 
From the shadowy silence springs 
Still that haunting voice of pain, 
The faint sobbing of my slain. 

All things sunny welcome me, — 
Fruited vine and breezy bee, 
Thickets where pale violets hide, 
Thymy banks with blossoms pied. 



r50 The Harvest Home 



Prosperous meads where sickles flash, 

Fountains whose cool waters plash 

'Mid the seamed and mossy rocks 

Where the shepherds wash their flocks. 

Hateful— hateful— hateful all ! 

Still I long for night to fall, 

Night that comes with nameless fear. 

When amid the leaves I hear, 

O'er the cold and misty plain, 

The faint sobbing of my slain. 



AFTER THE BATH 

NOW the swart slave-girls bring their perfumes 
sweet. 

And lightly sprinkle all her lustrous hair, 

Her supple neck, her ivory breast half -bare, 
Her glowing limbs, and e'en her pink-white feet. 
Languid she leans against the cushioned seat, 

While one white hand along the ebon chair 

Wanders to stroke the pard-skin lying there ; 
Upon her eyes the jetty lids half meet. 
What dreams she of. now that the bath is done, 

The unguents ended, and the cool robe brought? 
Of lovers? Nay — again beneath the sun 

She sees the red arena's sands upcaught 
Tn wild beasts' bloody jaws, and one by one 

The gladiators dying where they fought. 



At the Gate of Dreams 151 



NORA 

SHE stands in the light of the setting sun, 
Till the bright bars vanish, one by one, 

And the stars are hung in the azure dome, 
Like lamps, to guide lost spirits home. 

Thus she has watched through the weary years, 
Through moments of hope and months of tears — 

Watched at twilight pale and gray, 
While ever the slow years crept away — 

Watched and waited for one to come 
Back, over the wide wild prairie, home. 

He went when her cheek was fresh and fair, 
And the sunlight slept in her yellow hair ; 

When her eyes were blue, and her lips were red — 
As sweet a bride as was ever wed. 

But now she is old and wrinkled and gray, 
For the years have fretted her beauty away, 

And dim are her eyes that were once so blue, 
Yet her love is loyal, her heart is true. 



t52 The Harvest Home 



So she waits and waits while the sun goes down, 
And over the prairie, naked and brown, 

The shadows come stealing, big and black ; 
For he said, "Wait, Nora, till I come back," 

And he passed away through the gathering gloom. 
Away o'er the prairie, rich with bloom — 

Whistling he passed through the deepening dusk, 
Through the twilight sweet with the scent of musk- 

To seek the kine that had gone astray; 
But he never returns by night or day. 

"Ah^me! Ah me!" she softly saith, 

While her blue eyes shine with a mystic faith, 

"He seeketh far, he seeketh yet, 

But he will come back, he will not forget." 

So day after day, as the night draws on, 
She stands and waits at her door alone — 

W^aits while the sun sinks out of sight, 

And she stands alone with the vast dim night. 

Ah, yes ! ah, yes ! he hath gone afar 
For where the tremulous evening star 

Gleams like a gem o'er the heart of the west, 
He fell on sleep, on sleep and rest— 



At the Gate of Dreams 153 



On sleep that is sweeter than we know here, 
On rest unvexed by hope or fear. 

Above his lowly and lonesome grave, 

The long, strong grass and wild flowers wave. 

And the shadows of morning and evening play. 
While he slumbers the years of her waiting away 

But lo ! one evening when sunset burns, 
And in patient sorrow she waits and yearns, 

Up from the shadowy earth he shall rise, 
Like an angel of light to her dying eyes, 

And shall touch her hand and say, "Love, come, 
Behold, the dear Christ calls us home;" 

For the ties of love that here are riven, 
God will unite again in Heaven. 



HEROES 

THE prize of valor in the sanguine fray 
Is sculptured epitaph or ponderous tome, 
And for one brief and evanescent day 
A name familiar grown in every home. 



154 The Harvest Hox\ie 



OMAR KHAYYAM 

AH, shed long since the roses that he knew. 
And fled the perfume and the morning dew ; 
And dead the vine from out whose purple fruit 
Refreshment for his fading life he drew. 

As when some awkward slave lets fall the shape 
Of clay she bears, and through the rents agape 

The precious liquid pours, so careless Death 
Broke the frail jar and let his soul escape. 

Along the garden where his feet did pass, 
The steps of aliens bruise the springing grass; 

And not one careless eye hath noted how 
Still on the turf lies an inverted glass. 

There at dim nightfall, when the moon is pale, 
Within the laurel sings the nightingale ; 

And through the gathering darkness, from the ground 
Elusive breaths of fragrant wine exhale. 



CHARACTER 

NOT in soft dreams of pleasure is it wrought, 
Nor is it forged in hours of slothful thought, 
But in the furnace heat of strenuous years 
Time shapes its grace and tempers it with tears. 



At the Gate of Dreams 155 



ET EGO IN ARCADIA 

I HAVE been there ; I've seen the clear 
Blue hills through lucent atmosphere, 
Bright streams that babbled mid their ferns, 
Fair lilies lifting fragrant urns. 
And I, from blossom-covered trees, 
Have heard the sound of gathering bees, 
Of birds that shook their dewy breast 
With song beside the waiting nest. 
In the cool shadows of the rocks 
Oft have I watched the sleeping flocks. 
The while the shepherd, with his crook 
Against his knee, beside the brook 
Fashioned with skillful hand, at need, 
His panpipes from the whispering reed. 
And down the wood-paths long and dim, 
From the. dark fountain's fringed brim 
On each round arm a dripping jar, 
Their happy laughter borne afar, 
With white feet twinkling in the grass, 
I've seen the smooth-limbed maidens pass. 
When morn with tongues of arrowy fire 
Has tipped the fir tree's slender spire, 
Through ivied doors the doves have wheeled, 
The laboring wains have rolled afield, 
While from the stooks the reaper's song 
Echoed the rustling aisles along. 



156 The Harvest Home 



And when beneath the rosy skies 

The evening brought its lullabies, 

I've heard, in accents sweet and mild, 

A mother crooning o'er her child, 

Her every heart-beat a dumb prayer 

For the dear being pillowed there. 

And I have heard the night wind sigh, 

And seen the low stars burning nigh, 

And caught the firefly's wizard spark 

Out-struck amid the perfumed dark. 

These have I seen — the secret gold 

Where curves the rainbow's radiant fold, 

The mountain's cleft whence leaps the spring, 

The fays that foot their moonlight ring — 

Things ever seen of children's eyes 

Ere grown age-blurred and weary-wise — 

Things which the anointed still may see ; 

I, too, have been in Arcady. 



THE HEARLEQU1X 

WHO laughs in motley to the crowded court, 
And makes for idle days an idle sport, 
May teach us yet, in life's impartial school, 
'Tis me wear asses' ears and play the fool. 



At the Gate of Dreams 157 



HYMN FOR THE EMPIRE STATE 

EMPIRE of the pastoral hills, 
Of prosperous fields and winding streams, 
Of fruitful slopes and flashing rills. 
Thy rich and ample bosom teems 
With generous stores of corn and wine, 
Bestowments of the Hand Divine. 

'Mid happy vales thy lakes lie pearled; 

Like children, cities crowd thy knees ; 
Thy smoky banners are unfurled 

Each morn to those vast symphonies 
Of forge and anvil where still ply 
The hammers of thine industry. 

Thy punctual harvests shall not cease ; 

Thy rivers never shall run dry ; 
On thee shall fall the dews of peace 

From evening's hushed, impartial sky, 
To plenish still thy patient soil, 
And bless the hands of honest toil. 

And lo ! the world brings to thy feet 
Its wealth o'er multitudinous seas ; 

Within thy council chambers meet 
Sovereigns and powers and dignities ; 

Yet not of these thy state is won, 

But of thine -every worthy son. 



158 The Harvest Home 



May justice rule within thy halls; 

Redress be thine for every wrong ; 
Love dwell within thy humblest walls 

The weak be girded by the strong ; 
So shalt thou bear without a stain 
The scutcheon of thy proud domain. 



TREAD LIGHTLY 

TREAD lightly, Love, lest thou shouldst break my 
sleep; 
Tread lightly o'er the turf above my head ; 
I would my slumbers should be still and deep. 
While nature drapes her greenery round my bed. 

Come not too often, lest thou vex my rest ; 

The grass-blades crinkling 'neath thy passing feet 
Would wake an echo in my hollow breast. 

And somewhere in the dust my heart would beat. 

The nesting birds shall warble over me. 
And in the clover, o'er my placid face, 

Through long bright afternoons the reveling bee 
Shall sound his pipe about the quiet place, 

I'll follow some sweet dream through many a maze. 
While suns and seasons o'er me slowly glide ; 

And when at length thou leav'st the world'*; fair ways, 
I'll wake and softly fold thee to my side. 



At the Gate of Dreams T$g 

LACONIA 

(B. C. 480) 

BENEATH the summer stars they part; 
No weak and unavailing tear 
Shall from her down-dropt lashes start. 
In token of the nameless fear, 
The hopeless pain, the bitter smart, 
That storm the white gates of her heart. 

Dark braided tresses, soft and fine ; 

Sweet eyes that love hath made more sweet ; 
Warm, dimpled lips as red as wine; 
And in the sward her naked feet, 
Half hid by woven flower and vine, 
Pale through the balmy darkness shine. 

The glimmering dew is on the grass ; 

The distant sea moans in the night; 
The vagrant breezes sigh and pass ; 
The folded flocks bleat on the height ; 
But naught can charm them now; alas, 
Earth is not fair as once it was ! 

For they must part; beyond the hills, 

Beyond the blue Corinthian sea, 
Past Dorian steeps that flash with rills, 

O'er vine-clad fields of Thessaly, 

He fares to where the war-cry thrills, 
Where courage dies, and hatred kills. 



i6o The Harvest Home 



His heart is brave; he loves his land; 

He answers valor's high behest ; 
But. oh ! he loves the warm white hand 
He holds against his aching breast. 
Ah, 'twixt what thorny ways they stand! 
How stern is duty swift command! 

A kiss, a sigh, a low f arewell ; 
He fades in'.o the misty dark, 
And faint and fainter' down the dell 
His footsteps fall : she waits to hark — 
While in her heart strange passions swell- 
How from the wood grieves philomel. 



FINIS 

NOW his long day's work is done, 
Fold his palms upon his breast; 
Sweet the sleep which he hath won — 
Come away and let him rest. 

He hath toiled amid the tares ; 

He hath given of his best; 
Now he hath surcease from cares — 

Come away and let him rest. 

Scant his wage through weary years 
He hath broke the crust unblest; 

Quaffed the cup of bitter tears; 
But at last God gives him rest. 



At the Gatk of Dreams :6i 



AN AUTUMN BALLAD 

PERHAPS I loved him better than the others— who 
shall tell? 
But he was always a good boy and made me love 

him well; 
He was not like my Robert, nor was he like my 

Will, 
His ways were always different — so steady, true, and 
still. 

I mind me how he left me on that shining autumn 

day ; 
The corn was shocked upon the hill, where the yellow 

pumpkins lay; 
The apples fell from loaded boughs, the fields were 

green and fair, 
And plenty, peace, and happiness breathed in the earth 

and air. 

He stood against the mellow light within the open 

door; 
His shadow wavered through my tears along the sunny 

floor, 
To where I sat and sobbed, as if my lonely heart 

would break, 
For he was last to leave me — he had tarried for my 

sake. 



](»_' The Harvest Home 



His eyes were dim and tearful, and his voice was 

broken, slow ; 
"It is my duty, mother," he said, "that I should 

go; 
The government has need of men; I go to fill my 

place ; 
'Tis better I should go to death than stay and win 

disgrace." 

He turned and left me, for he could not speak an- 
other word, 

But as he passed the garden gate a stifled sob I 
heard. 

In strange bewilderment I rose and looked upon the 
day; 

There in the sunlight danced the rill by which he used 
to play. 

I heard the sound of marching feet, I heard the bugle 

blow ; 
And through my open door I saw the soldiers come 

and go ; 
A face I knew, a face I loved, flashed by me, still and 

white, 
And passed, though then I knew it not, forever from 

my sight. 

What need to tell the weary while of anxious nights 

and days 
That followed? On the peaceful hills I saw the cattle 

graze ; 



At the Gate of Dreams 163 



The misty sunshine, warm and soft, lay on the golden 

leaf, 
But not on that dark heart of mine, so bowed and 

full of grief. 

It came full soon, the cruel blow, ere scarce a month 

was gone, 
And he, my boy, my best beloved, who I had leaned 

upon, 
Forth from the carnage and the strife, the murderous 

blare and heat, 
Was brought, the war's first offering, and laid before 

my feet. 

I could not look on his dead face, I could not moan 

nor weep, 
When, wrapped within his country's flag, they bore 

him to his sleep ; 
There, day and night, beside his grave goes rippling 

down the rill, 
And there the last late sunbeam lingers on the pleasant 

hill. 

My Robert and my Will came back; they are good 

boys to me, 
But somehow in my life there is a dreary vacancy; 
I miss his step, I miss his voice, his quiet ways I 

miss, 
And daily on my lips it seems I yet must feel his 

kiss. 



i'>4 The Harvest Home 



The seasons go their wonted round; through all the 

autumn days, 
The dreanry earth lies lightly swathed within an amber 

haze ; 
But never come such days to me as when, in that old 

year, 
The world was beautiful to me because my boy was 

here. 

Perhaps I loved him better than the others — who shall 

tell? 
But he was always a good boy and made me love 

him well ; 
And since I know that he has gone to come again no 

more, 
It seems that he is nearer far, and dearer than 

before. 



MOONLIGHT 

THROUGH night's dim gulfs a silver radiance falls ; 
On dreaming wood and city square it lies ; 
It streams along yon attic's naked walls, 

To kiss a child's starved face and sightless eyes. 



At thi; Gate of Dreams 165 



CERES 

SUN-TANNED she sits amid the sheaves 
Above her lisp the cooling leaves ; 
Beside her feet her sickle shines, 
Half -hid by woven weeds and vines. 
Her dusky tresses ripple down 
About her arms, which, bare and brown, 
Are clasped across her knees ; her eyes, 
Wherein a dreamy shadow lies, 
Look out athwart the shimmering field 
Where stalwart, swart-armed reapers wield 
Their flashing blades, and laugh and sing, 
Till all the pleached copses ring. 
The fruit of long desires she sees 
Wave golden in the rustling breeze ; 
Hers was the bounteous, unseen hand 
That morn by morn across the land 
Scattered the generous dews and rains, 
Till over all the amber plains, 
And up and down the purple slopes, 
Dimpled the joy of harvest hopes; 
So now she sits with task nigh done, 
The while the mellow autumn sun 
Beholds the consummation fair 
Of all her labor and her care. 



1 66 The Harvest Home 



And well content she hears the song 
Trolled by the reapers all day long, 
And sees the tireless sickles glance 
Amid the grain ; the votive dance 
She knows full well shall circle soon 
Beneath the ruddy harvest moon, 
When lissome limbs and tripping feet. 
And twining hands that part and meet, 
Shall sow with amorous prophecy 
Another harvest vet to be. 



A MEMORY 

BETWIXT the blown sands and the flowing sea 
We stood at nightfall. In the hollow west 
The ultimate torch of day flared for a space, ' 
Sank and expired. A wind whined round the dunes, 
And ragged shreds of vapor, salt and chill, 
Went by us in the flaw. We had no tear 
To shed, no word to say. Our stricken heads 
Were bowed together, and her streaming hair 
Swept o'er my cheek. Swiftly the gray night fell 
And like a huge hand blotted sea and shore. 
I heard her garments rustle in the gloom ; 
A moment on my breast she laid her brow, 
Then turned and from the darkness where she fled, 
A sob came down the gust. 'Twas ages since. 
But memory still broods on that black hour. 



At the Gate of Dreams 167 



SONG OF THE NORTH WIND 

HARK to the voice of me! 
Hear thou the singing 
Of htm who has never 
Been paid for his song ! 
This is the choice of me, 
Still to go ringing 
The rhymes that forever 
Are surly and strong. 

Know'st thou the regions cold 
Whence I have hasted? 
Know'st thou the way I take 
Over the earth? 
Still stand the legions old— 
Ice-kings unwasted — 
Fending the frigid lake 
Where I had birth. 

Frost-banded fountains 
Snow-fed from far peaks ; 
Firths of the polar sea 
Rigid as stone; 
Shag-bearded mountains ; 
Deeps that no star seeks ; 
Strange lights that solar be — 
These I have known. 



168 The Harvest Home 



Men fear the breath of me 

Sorrow and anguish. 

Famine and fever 

Follow my path. 

I am the death of thee ; 

I make thee languish; 

Swiftly I sever 

Love's ties in my wrath. 

Chains can not hold me. 
Gyves can not bind me, 
Bolts can not lock me, 
Floods can not drown ! 
Fly— and I fold thee: 
Hide — and I find thee; 
Cry — and I mock thee, 
Howling thee down. 



CARPE DIEM 



THE beasts that roam the fields when Spring is 
green 
Know not the morrow, mourn not yesterday ; 
Their joy is now ; we pine for what hath been. 
Blind to our bliss till it hath slipped away. 



At the Gate of Dreams 169 



THE FATAL TEST 

DOWN through the lilied valley, where waters are 
foaming and falling 
Into the rocky basins, cool and mossy of rim, 
Down through the fields and the woodlands, 'mid wild 
things hiding and calling, 
He comes where green flags wave, and reeds stand 
tall and slim. 

Hark to the sound of his lyring! — no thin and dis- 
cordant noises, 
But music that sinks and swells till the ravished 
winds grow whist, 
While the full-brimmed streams and the birds silence 
their jocund voices, 
And the whispering trees bend low and hush their 
leaves to list. 

Brighter Apollo's coming than that of the flame-footed 
morning ; 
Swift from his glorious presence shadows and dark- 
ness flee ; 
O thou by thy doting flock, O Marsyas, hear and take 
warning, 
Tempt not the god to pause and test his skill with 
thee. 



i 70 The Harvest Home 



What are thy reed-notes frail to strains that are thus 
outshaken 

From flashing strings that throb and thrill with im- 
mortal pain? 
Sweet are the sounds of thy fluting, and the echoes 
thou dost awaken, 
But with the lyre of the god to match thy pipe were 
vain. 
******* 

Flow down, O stream bereaved, amid thy reeds low 
plaining ; 
O bleating flock, ye wander far from the wattled 
fold; 
Crushed is the shepherd's pipe, and the day is slowly 
waning. 
But Marsyas will not heed, though the evening dews 
be cold. 



ART 

NO cruel mistress she, with icy brows. 
And cold eyes veiled in haughty half-eclipse, 
But a warm maid who hears her lovers vows. 
With gracious smiles upon her tender lips. 



At the Gate of Dreams 171 



COME BACK, DEAR DAYS 

COME back, dear days, come back, O days long fled ! 
Alas, the shining days of old are dead ! 
No more white arms through shadowy copses gleam ; 
No more fair shoulders part the rippling stream ; 
Through piney groves no pink-lipped, laughing Hours 
Dance hand in hand, and garlanded with flowers ; 
From fruit-heaped shrines no fragrant vapors rise 
Into the azure deeps of smiling skies. 
When summer airs soft over Enna blow, 
No shepherd's plaintive piping, sweet and low, 
From distant grassy uplands lightly steals, 
And softly dies along the listening fields. 
The hymns that through the woodlands rang are 

hushed ; 
Long since was dried the bubbling fount that gushed 
Beneath the hill, and purled amid its brede 
Of rushes, where Pan notched his idle reed. 
No more the Huntress winds her breezy horn 
From steep to steep, and in the early morn 
No rosy maids lead up the mountain-side 
A milk-white steer, sleek-limbed and gentle-eyed. 
While dewy vale and rocky heights prolong 
With echoes sweet the sacrificial song. 
Ay, shaggy Satyr, fleeting Nymph, and Faun, 
The youthful joy and freshness — all are gone; 



T/2 Tite Harvest Home 



For we have fallen and on evil days and sad. 
On clanging marts of trade where men go mad, 
On vapid pleasures, and on sorrows vain : 
So come again, dear days, come back again ; 
Re-people our unhaunted groves and streams, 
And fill our arid lives with happy dreams. 



SUNRISE 

THERE are pearls in the heart of the rose, 
There are gems on each grassy spire. 
And the eye of the hidden violet glows 

With a tender and tremulous fire; 
For over the valley's emerald brim 

The dawn's pale light is spilled, 
And the heart of the woodlands, misty-dim, 
With the flutter of wings is thrilled. 

And hark! welling up from the ground 

An elfin music is heard. 
And out of the copses floats a sound 

Of many a wakening bird. 
Now over the wide and darkling sea 

Hastens the sun-crowned morn; 
There's a flush on the height, there's a light on the lea 

Behold ! the day is born. 



At the Gate of Dreams 17;? 



AN IMMORTELLE 

''""TMVAS here she lay; amid the pillows white 
X Glimmered her thin sweet face and violet eyes 

Sometimes she watched yon moving square of light, 
Or through the window scanned the wistful skies. 

Outside the casement tiger-lilies swayed, 
And flickering shadows wavered o'er the sill, 

As through the vines the frolic breezes played, 
Bringing faint scents of mignonette and dill. 

Sometimes, flashed o'er her dainty lips, would come 
A sudden smile when through its circling bars 

Her happy warbler, from its wicker home, 
Poured forth its song amid the jasmine stars. 

There are the plants she loved : as gracious skies 
Shed grateful drops upon the thirsty flowers, 

So these knew well her gentle ministries, 
For day by day she brought them freshening showe 

Their leaves are drooping now ; the bird is dumb ; 

Outside the sill no tiger-lilies wave; 
The vines are sere and dead; the snow is come, 

And round her tomb the winds of winter rave. 

But in our hearts perpetual summer breathes ; 

Her presence still like perfume fills the room; 
For as the buds slip from their velvet sheathes, 

She softly burgeoned into deathless bloom. 



i/4 The Harvest Home 



SONG OF THE VAUDOIS EXILES 

VALLEY as fair as a vision, 
O river as bright as a dream, 

fields sweet as meadows Elysian. 

valley. O meadows, O stream, 

1 leave thee to-day and forever, 
Yea, I pass as a tale that is told, 

But this flesh from my spirit shall sever 
Ere my love for thee fails or grows cold. 

O heights that are clothed with the sunlight, 

As the hills of our God shine afar, 
Henceforth thou shalt stand in but one light 

Shed abroad from a shadowless star ; 
For lo ! the clear orb of remembrance 

Through sorrow and time shall not wane. 
And though tears should obscure thee and distance, 

1 shall see thee in memory again. 



THE BEDOUINS OF THE SKY 

YON clouds that roam the deserts of the air, 
On wind-swift barbs, o'er many an azure plain, 
Scarce pause to lift to Allah one small prayer, 
Ere Ishmael's spirit drives them forth again. 



At tmr Gait of Dueams 



ARETHUSA 

AH, now I lay my parched lips to thine, 
That I may quench my blood's consuming lire ; 
Swiftly I kneel where fainting winds suspire, 
And odors o'er the earth are spilt like wine, 
That I may touch thy cool soft cheek with mine. 
And heal the poignant hurts of my desire. 

How have I sought thee, though the weary waste 
Reeled round me, and the dizzy light did glare 
Athwart my darkling sight, and thorns did tear 

My naked feet that stumbled in their haste ; 

With what importunate thirst I longed to taste 
Thy fragrant breath, thy kisses sweet and rare ! 

O murmur to me ! Of thy voice I dreamed 

When through my dwindled veins the maddening 

drouth 
Did surge like fire, and from the pitiless south 

A furnace-blast around me ever streamed; 

Still did I hear thy voice, and still meseemed 
To feel the liquid touches of thy mouth. 

Upon thy bosom happy shadows fall, 
And tender grasses lightly lean to thee; 
Beside thee ever pipes the sylvan bee, 
And the hushed flowers hear thy faery call 
The conscious reeds weave round thy margin all 
Their slender leaves in emerald broidery. 



i;6 The Harvest Home 



And now I find thee, and I kneel and lay 

My brow to thine, and bathe my anguished eyes 
In the pure depths where infinite soothing lies 

For thy seared lover whom the heat would slay ; 

To thee I come and hide me from the day 
That hurls its blazing barbs from brazen skies. 

O tresses flowing over crystal sands 

That rise and stir, I plunge my face in thee, 
And feel thee ripple down my shoulders free. 

And in thee wind and wind my glowing hands; 

While from my forehead slip the iron bands 

That, ever tightening, wrought new pangs for me. 

Here will I lie, nor ever wander more ; 

For me through endless hours thy billowy breast 
Shall lightly heave; to thine shall still be pressed 

My eager lips for slaking o'er and o'er; 

Here will I lie, upon this easeful shore, 

While thou with song dost lull me into rest. 



THE DERELICT 

A WAN moon sinks behind low-hanging clouds; 
The dark waste whispers in unquiet sleep 
Where, dim and sinister, with rotting shrouds, 
An ooze-stained hulk rolls heavily on the deep. 



At the Gate of Dreams 177 



BEFORE AND AFTER 

OLD Janus of the double face 
Looks both before and after ; 
His eyes one moment brim with tears, 
The next o'erflow with laughter. 

He sees the griefs of yesterday, 
And turning toward the morrow, 

He sees the joys that lie in wait 
For hearts bowed down with sorrow. 

He sees the homes that love had left, 

When evil entered darkling, 
Grow bright again with happy smiles 

And eyes of children sparkling. 

He sees, the graves, that once were made 
When snow and sleet were falling, 

Grow green and fair with grass and flowers, 
And birds above above them calling. 

He sees the torn and trampled fields, 
Where War his red brand raises, 

O'erspread at length with leagues of grain 
And fringed with star-eyed daisies. 

He sees the shattered plans of men, 
And lives that shame has blighted, 

And ties of love that sundered lie, 
All healed and reunited. 



i/8 The Harvest Home 



He sees old habits' chains thrown off, 
Strong fetter snapped from fetter, 

And marks, as rolling months go by, 
The glad world growing better. 

Thus Janus of the double face, 
Whose locks with frost are hoary, 

Sees streaming from the darkened past 
The future's golden glory. 



THE GUEST 

OPAIN, and art thou come to be my guest? 
Then will I not deny thee ; lo ! I greet 
With smiles thy coming; thy wan face is sweet, 
And to mine own let thy parched lips be pressed 
With fond beguilement; on mine aching breast 
Pillow thine head; and while the hours on feet 
Of flame run by or haltingly or fleet, 
Here shalt thou find thine own companioned rest. 
Nay, now I know that who accepteth thee, 
How'er his hands may falter, hath thy leave 
To loose thy mask and see thee as thou art, — 
How that thy forehead shines angelically, 
And thy deep eyes mysteriously weave 
A spell at length to hush the anguished heart. 



At the Gate of Dreams 779 



PAX MORTIS 

THE lady lies clothed all in white; 
Her yellow ringlets fall 
Like throbbing rays of amber light 
Along the sombre pall. 

Her shapely limbs, like marble cold, 

Gleam through the drapery 
That clasps her form in many a fold, 

To veil her chastity. 

Her lips, pale blighted buds of May, 
Shall bloom no more, and lo ! 

How swiftly shall dissolve away 
Her bosom's drifted snow. 

The light hath left her sweet blue eyes; 

The silver voice is mute, — 
Its music fled, and now she lies 

Dumb as a shattered lute. 

Her hands are crossed upon her breast; 

O, is this death or sleep? 
And does she only take her rest, 

While stars their vigils keep? 

The lights burn softly in their place; 

A perfume fills the air; 
The silence lies upon her face, 

And on her yellow hair. 



i8o The Harvest Home 



Her two white feet are still and cold; 

Her two cold cheeks are white: 
But lying under warm soft mold. 

She'll feel no chill of night. 

The winged moments come and go ; 

The lady doth not reck; 
A single rose, as white as snow, 

Lies on her sweet white neck. 

The silent stars wheel over her ; 

The watchers watch in vain ; 
Though dawn shall come she will not stir, 

Nor wake nor weep again. 

A CITY CRY 

HERE hoarsely moan the floods of human woe. 
And evermore, along the busy streets. 

The iron hoof of traffic loudly beats, 
And lean-faced avarice shuffles to and fro ; 
Here grudgingly the feet of mercy go 

Where gaunt and grimy squalor sits and eats 

Her bitter bread, and here, through foul retreats, 
Death's noisome currents darkly ebb and flow. 
O God, of those sweet airs which blow between 

The emerald hills, let me e'er breathe ; keep me, 
Far from the roaring city, in Thy green 

And quiet solitudes, where I may see 
The birds, the flowers, the grass, and sweetly lean 

My heart upon the peace and love, of Thee. 



At the Gate of Dreams 181 



THE WANDERER 

HAVE you seen our little one ? 
Yesterday 
By our hearth she sweetly shone, 
Radiant, star-like; there were none 
But did love her ; ah, they say 
That we've lost her — that she's gone 
Far away. 

You would know her on the street ; 

Shining hair, 
Eyes of blue, and dainty feet — 
You would know her should you meet 
Our lost darling anywhere ; 
God's own saints are not more sweet, 

Nor more fair. 

We have sought her to and fro, 

But in vain; 
Ah! if she could only know 
How our hearts with tears o'erflow, 
She would come to us again; 
She would take away our woe, 

Heal our pain! 

Shall we ever see her more? — 
Shining head, 



j 82 The Harvest Home 



Laughing lips and eyes of yore? 
Shall we have her as before, — 
Our lost bird that lightly spread 
The swift, viewless wings she wore, 
And so fled? 

Ay, we shall not lose her quite ; 

By and by, 
When our eyes have better sight, 
Growing used to larger light, 
Her fair path we shall descry. 
God will guide our feet aright. 

Graciously. 

We shall find her some rare day, 

Soon or late; 
We shall find her at her play, 
Blithe as when she fled away ; 
So we will not wail our fate ; 
Though our heads and hearts be gr 

We can wait. 



A SHOOTING STAR 

A HOMESICK angel, with sad eye; 
Upon some distant sphere. 
Adown the dark abysmal skies 
Let fall one golden tear. 



At the Gate of Dreams 



FARRINGFORD 
{Isle of Wight— -October, 1892) 

HE sleeps the sleep that knows no earthly waking; 
But now for him above eternal hills, 
The cloudless dawn of deathless day is breaking, 
And splendor fills 
The orbit of his vision glorified. 
Not yet the glad surprise 
Hath faded from his eyes 

Of that first raptured gazing on the slopes of Paradise. 
New is the song he sings ; 
His valiant voice outrings 
Through all the spaces wide. 
Roofed with the lights celestial which o'erdome 
That bourne where radiant spirits seek their home. 
Him doth the vast deep mourn, 
And round this isle that knew his wandering feet 
On restless winds is borne 
A sigh of lamentation vague and fleet. 
The silent ships go by, 

To find their haven 'neath an autumn sky, 
As conscious that no more 
Shall he behold them who of yore 
Chanted their conquest over wind and wave. 
Ay, he is in his grave, 
Where the huge minster's shadowy arches soar, 



t&j The Harvest Home 



And where the mighty city's hollow roar 

Rolls down the endless streets. 

Him the blithe day greets 

No longer in the garden that he knew, 

Where bright for him the larkspur grew, 

And roses shed their sweets — 

Where sounds of morn and even did uprise 

In infinite harmonies. 

O, yet we do but err 

To deem that beauty's Avorshiper 

Forsakes its shrine 

At summons of the Voice divine ; 

For he hath passed into that inner place 

Where now he seeth, face to face. 

Eternal Beauty as it is. 

Him shall the dews not miss. 

Nor the brave grass, nor flowers that bud and blow. 

Nor the cool brooks that flow 

By wood and fell-side to the wooing sea ; 

Henceforth he is a part of them, for he 

Shall be resolved into that essence pure 

Which ever shall endure 

As loveliness in stream, and hill, and tree. 

His voice men still shall hear 

In whispering leaves, and in the noonday choir 

Of summer insects, and the dawn-song clear 

Where morn plants on the downs her feet of fire. 

He still shall sing within the rhythmic tides 

That ocean rolls above its caverns hoar, 

And in the unheard music that e'er slides 



At the Gate of Dreams 185 



Through gulfs of night from many a star-sprent shore. 

His song from countless joyous feathered throats 

Shall bubble at day break and at evenfall, 

And those far elf-land notes 

He loved shall echo in the iterant call 

Of black-stoled crickets on the winter hearth. 

By many a norland firth 

Where the shrewd blasts whine round the icy peaks. 

By many a desert strand 

Where the Pacific ever idly breaks 

A tumbled billow round the lonely land, 

Where'er is sound or song, there shall be heard, 

Sweet as the memory of love's dying word, 

The master's tone in nature's symphony, 

Till Time shall furl his wings and cease to be. 



A FOOL TO-DAY, A SAINT TO-MORROW 

MOTHER earth, within thine ample breast 
Make for thy weary child a quiet bed ; 
The mob hath raged about his bloody head; 
Now fold him to thy heart and let him rest. 

At length his spirit sinks, his pulses faint : 

Yet while men stoned him he spared not to cry 
Against their darling sins; now let him die, 

To-day a fool, to-morrow lo ! a saint. 



[86 The Harvest Home 



SORROW-BLIND 



THE world is lovely ; but our eyes are dim 
With selfish tears, and through the blinding mist 
We cannot see the glorious mountains kissed 
By the last rays of sunset, nor the slim 
And nascent moon above the night's faint rim, 
Nor the young stars that keep their early tryst. 

The world is lovely; but our pulses beat 
To the slow measure of a hopeless pain, 
And the dull throbbing of our heart and brain 

Shuts out the vision of the fair and sweet ; 

Yea, even the beauty shining at our feet 
Shineth for us, the sorrow-blind, in vain. 

The world is lovely ; oh, when night comes on, 
And long and lonely vigils vex our eyes, 
God grant that over all the darkened skies 

The stars of promise may be thickly sown; 

And though we wait, and watch, and weep alone, 
Yet wait as one who knows the dawn shall rise. 



A VOLUME OF VERSE 

THIS is a plant whose slender growth, 
Through years of sun and gloom, 
Hath yet scarce burst the bud's green sheath 
To show a timid bloom. 



At the Gate of Dreams 187 

THE SPECTER 

'Be sure your sin will find you out." — Num. 32:23. 

THE night is long, the moon is cold, 
The stars faint in the icy sky, 
My pulses wane, my heart is old, 

And yet I should not dare to die. 
Before me ever stands my sin, 

A wraith that will not disappear; 
Its outstretched hands are pale and thin, 
And through them sifts the moonlight clear, 

Once from this ghost I sought to hide 

Where music clashed and lights did flare, 
I turned my eyes, lo ! at my side, 

Chill, mist-like, silent, it was there. 
Then to the wilderness I fled, 

In sackcloth wrapped my bitter shame, 
Poured ashes on my stricken head — 

O God ! it o'er me stood the same. 

Then an unquiet bed in hell 

Ait length in sheer despair I made, 
But while the shadows round me fell. 

Beside rne rose a blacker shade ; 
Fill suddenly the foul eclipse 

Refused to clothe my spirit stark, 
aid while I shrieked with stiffened lips, 

From off me rolled the frightened dark. 



1 88 The Harvest Home 



And now I drift about the world; 

My eyes are emptied of their tears ; 
My hopes like chaff are round me whirled 

And all my soul is scourged with fears. 
The moon sinks low, the night is long; 

Beneath a cold and prayerless sky 
I stand, watched by my spectral wrong, 

Afraid to live, afraid to die. 



THE CRUISE 

THE great ship's sails are all unfurled. 
Her prow divides the ancient sea ; 
Along her cloudy track the world 
Sweeps through immensity. 

She bears her freight of tears and graves. 
Of trampled dust and bloody wreck, 

While seamen chant their jolly staves 
Upon her rock-ribbed deck. 

Day after day a throng of mimes 

Leap smiling from her swarming womb, 

To play their little part betimes 
Ere falls the lampless gloom. 

Her weary voyage is never done ; 

The winds about her never sleep : 
Forever with the flying sun 

She cleaves the shoreless deep. 



At the Gate oe Dreams 189 



IN THE CLOISTER 

HOW wearily the day goes by ! 
The hateful shadows on the wall 
dour after hour unmoving lie ; 
Outside, I hear the sparrows call 

The garden walks, white in the glare. 
Throb like a pulse beneath the heat ; 

I see the sun-dial blindly stare ; 
I count the fountain's steady beat. 

Along their beds the flowers droop ; 

All wilted is the trellised vine ; 
The branches of the ash-tree stoop 

With dusty berries red as wine. 

The fly sings in the leaded panes; 

And from the echoing chapel steal 
The livelong day the distant strains 

Of hymn and chant and organ-peal. 

I'm tired of the rustling swish 
Of trailing robes o'er chilly stones; 

I wish — what is it that I wish? 
I know a crypt where mouldy bones 

Are piled against the vaulted roof ; 

There a low taper ever smokes ; 
The jangling bell sounds far aloof, 

And muffles its unceasing strokes. 



190 The Harvest Home 



There — there are silence, gloom and rest; 

No measured step, no solemn air. 
No meek cross o'er a rebel breast, 

No downcast eyes, no muttered prayer. 

Outside, the blinking waters lie ; 

Beyond, the great world swings and roars. 
Where many an infant's tender cry 

Leaps forth from happy human doors. 

O flesh, vex not my faltering soul. 
Nor let my fancy, wandering wide 

From crucifix and saintly stole, 

Defile the Bridegroom's virgin bride. 

Bride ?---ah, I hate this loathsome cell! 

I hate yon altar where I kneel, 
While still with mumbling lips I tell 

The prayers my heart can never feel. 

Bride? — still I think on perfumed aisles, 
On arching boughs, on grass that springs 

By streams that keep their morning smiles, 
Where swallows dip their glancing wings ; 

W 7 here whispers stir the scented dark 
Of screening leaves, and where the place 

Grows sweet with violet eyes that mark 
The truth and beautv in his face. 



At the Gate of Dreams 191 



His face — whose face? My hair is wet 
With fevered drops ; my hands are weak ; 

I know the signal that is set 
In crimson on my hollow cheek. 

And Sister Agnes, with the eyes 

Like doves' eyes, comes to softly weep : 

Upon my brow her cool hand lies ; 
I close my lids and feign to sleep. 

For I would be alone to dream ; 

I love my dreams ; thus I escape 
These maddening walls that ever gleam, 

Those sickened blooms, that yellowing grape. 

The sluggard moments come and pass ; 

The flickering light fades from the sill; 
I hear the sounds of evening mass, 

Of closing doors, and all is still. 

And o'er the ash-tree hangs a star 

That trembles through the twilight gray; 

'Tis night; a watch-dog bays afar; 
Dear God, send not another day! 

CARLYLE 

A WANDERING cloud upon his haggard face 
A shadow cast — he thought it doom's black pall; 
He saw a transient star shoot from its place, 
And deemed the reeling heavens about to fall. 



uj Thjb Harvest Homk 



A VANISHED FACE 

STILL as of old the morning breaks ; 
The brook delays its mimic flood. 
And in its soft embrace it takes 
The ivy-mantled wood. 

Within the elm the robin sings ; 

The lilac blooms beside the bars ; 
And through the shadows evening brings 

Look down the early stars. 

And day by day the cheerful sounds 
Arise of those who sow or reap, 

Who wake to tread life's common rounds, 
And turn again to sleep. 

The seasons come and go apace, 
And naught is changed mine eyes can see 

But in its grave lies one dear face 
That was the world to me. 



THE CURE-ALLS 

Le temps ou la mort sont nos remedies. — Rousseau. 

FOR love that blights, for pain that slowly wastes, 
For fears that haunt, for hopes that ever flee. 
For sorrow that abides, for joy that hastes — 
Or time or death hath sovran remedy. 



At the Gate of Dreams 193 



WHEN CLOVER BLOOMS 

WHEN clover blooms in the meadows, 
And the happy south winds blow; 
When under the leafy shadows 
The singing waters flow — 
Then come to me; as you pass 
I shall hear your feet in the grass, 
And my heart shall awake and leap 
From its cool, dark couch of sleep, 
And shall thrill again, as of old, 
Ere its long rest under the mold — 
When clover blooms. 

Deem not that I shall not waken; 

I shall know, my Love, it is you ; 
I shall feel the tall grass shaken, 
I shall hear the drops of the dew 
That scatter before your feet; 
I shall smell the perfume sweet 
Of the red rose that you wear, 
As of old in your sunny hair; 
Deem not that I shall not know 
It is your light feet that go 
'Mid clover blooms. 

O Love, the years have parted — 
The long, long years ! — our ways ; 



194 The Harvest Home 



You have gone with the merry-hearted 
These many and many days, 
And I with that grim guest 
Who loveth the silence best. 
But come to me — I shall wait 
For your coming, soon or late. 
For soon or late, I know, 
You shall come to my rest below 
The clover blooms. 



THE GYPSY QUEEN 

I KNOW her where she goes in crimson hood, 
And motley robe that sets the leaves astir; 
Her truant hair, strayed from its silken snood, 
The frost has lightly tipped with minever. 

The gypsy blood glows in her sun-browned cheek; 

Her rounded arms with liberal fruits are heaped; 
Her wine-dark eyes, athwart the shifting reek 

Of burning weeds, behold the fields new-reaped. 

Too brief the days of her mild empery, 
Yet such the ample largess of her grace 

That in the wintry heart of memory 

Shall still abide the sunshine of her face. 



At the Gate of Dreams 195 



NAMELESS GRAVES 

GRATEFUL heart of the nation, keep 
Their memory green forever — 
Our laureled dead who softly sleep 

By many a winding river, 
Where whispering pines and sunny palms, 

Above each grass-grown grave, 
Recount through bright and prosperous calms 
The great deeds of the brave. 

Shall we for whom they freely shed 

Their blood, like rain on flowers, 
Shall we for whom they nobly bled 

Forget these knights of ours? — 
Who fought and fell where shot and shell 

Ploughed through the lists of death, 
And as it were the mouth of hell 

Upsent its withering breath ! 

How by the treacherous morass, 

Through deadly mists and damps; 
How by each wild and savage pass, 

O'er glooming fens and swamps ; 
How ever towards the shifting foe 

They pressed with brave endeavor — 
While free winds blow and waters flow, 

The world shall know forever. 



i<;6 The Harvest Home 



O how they fell ! No tongues shall tell 

Death's red and plenteous reaping ; 
On sandy slope, in woody dell, 

The countless dead are sleeping, 
'Mid silent camps where ne'er again 

The trumpet's sudden braying 
Shall wake them to war's leaden rain 

And battle's iron slaying. 

O'er each lone tomb shall summer bloom. 

And grasses sway and bend. 
And lightly through the fragrant gloom 

The evening dews descend : 
'Tis well ! for there they crept to hide 

Their bodies pierced and maimed, 
And there, unseen, they bled and died, 

Alone, but not ashamed. 

And there, by night, look down the stars 

On many a nameless grave, 
Where shadows cast their silver bars, 

And misty streamers wave : 
Back to her heart doth nature fold 

Her own, to keep and bless, 
While o'er them tides of sleep are rolled 

And sweet forgetfulness. 



At the Gate of Dreams 197 



A BALLAD OF DEATH 

I HUG thy face to mine, 
I feel thy breath; 
What breath so shrewd as thine, 
So sweet, O Death? 

Give me thy lips to kiss ; 

Like rare old wine 
They thrill and sting with bliss — 

Those lips of thine. 

Against thy heart I press, 

O Death, my lover; 
My utter nakedness 

Thy cloak shall cover — 

Thy cool, thick cloak of grass 

And woven flowers, 
Through which no heat can pass, 

Nor frost nor showers. 

No warmth is in thy breast, 

Nor is it colder 
Than lends a pleasant rest 

To them that molder. 

My heart from thy true heart 

Time shall not sunder ; 
.We shall not lie apart, 

The dark sod under; 



198 The Harvest Home 



But lie in cloven clay, 

And clasp and kiss, 
Nor miss the light of day, 

Nor starlight miss. 

My mouth shall cleave to thine, 
My arms shall hold thee; 

Thy soul shall mix with mine. 
Thy peace enfold me. 

I grasp thy bony wrist, 

Nor fear nor falter ; 
Thy love shall still exist 

(Nor ever alter) 

When earthly love hath fled 

And left no traces ; 
Thy tears are never shed 

On faded faces. 

Than love of earthly friends, 

What love is blinder? 
Earth's love with hatred blends 

Thy love is kinder. 

Thy love shall still exist, 

Despite derision ; 
No dim deceitful mist 

E'er clouds thy vision, 



At the Gate of Dreams 199 



But thou dost see aright ; 

Thy love hath power 
To purge thine inward sight, 

From hour to hour. 

Lean over; let me touch 

Thy wan white face ; 
Thou hast such beauty, such 

High, godlike grace. 

Mine eyes thy kisses seal, 

And on me pressing, 
Thy thin moist palms I feel. 

In mute caressing. 

Death, I love thee, thou 
So gracious art ; 

1 lay my throbbing brow 
On thy cool heart, 

And sink beneath a flood 

Of blissful feeling, 
While into all my blood 

Thy calm is stealing. 

Who grieves to leave an earth 

Of tears and sighs, 
Of moans and hollow mirth, 

Of spite and lies? 



joo The Harvest Home 



Not I. Make room for me; 

My face is numb; 
Henceforth with kissing thee 

My lips are dumb. 



JOY OF LIFE 

HEART, lift up a brave song, 
For it is good to be ; 
We will not sing a grave-song, — 
Avaunt, mortality ! 

Far from us be the wormy mold 
Where Sorrow's footsteps fall ; 

Far from us be the phantoms cold 
That through the darkness call. 

Now let us lift a morning lay ; 

The sun is in the sky ; 
The winds of God about us play ; 

An angel rustles by. 

And there is dew upon the sward. 

And flowers are in the grass, 
And lo ! the glory of the Lord 

Gleams where his garments pass. 



At the Gate of Dreams 201 



A PUZZLE 

ALAS!. I am a gray-beard; 
My years are fifty-three ; 
I'm old and grave, but Bessie ne'er 
Will sit upon my knee. 

Yet once this dimpled maiden, 
With bird-like sounds of glee 

And sweet proprietary airs, 
Would perch upon my knee. 

And oft we've romped together, 
When summer winds blew free, 

But evening stars and sleepy eyes 
Brought Bessie to my knee. 

But now I cannot coax her ; 

What can the difference be? 
Her gowns are long, she romps no more, 

Nor sits upon my knee. 



THE SINGING PILGRIM 

CONTENT, with meager scrip and pilgrim staff, 
Singing he journeys through the changeful years 
At whiles, he stays to laugh with those who laugh ; 
Anon, his way lies through the Vale of Tears. 



The Harvest Home 



AT THE WINDOW 

A LITTLE face at the window, 
A tiny hand that waves good-bye, 
A dimpling smile, and golden hair 
Wherein the frolic sunbeams lie ; 
Such is the vision that all day long 

Follows my weary feet, 
And moves wherever my tired eyes 
Gaze on the busy street. 

For how could one toil and wrestle, 

To win his daily wage of bread, 
Did he not think on those loving eyes, 

Those rosebud lips, that shining head? 
So while the heavy hours go by 

In the noisy market-place, 
I long for the moment to see again 

At the window that little face. 

little face at the window ! 

O sunny eyes and silken hair ! 

1 hasten my footsteps homeward, 
For I shall find you there. 

Far, far hence be the evening hour 

When I no more shall see 
At the darkened window a little face, 

Except in memory. 



At the Gate of Dreams 203 



HYGEIA 

DARKENED eyes above the grass, 
O have you seen the maiden pass? 
Her smile is like the morn, they say; 
Her forehead fairer than the day. 

With some who know it not she walks ; 
By cottage gates she stands and talks ; 
She flees the palace and the hall, 
Nor heeds the golden tongues that call. 

She lives with dawn upon the hills ; 
She loiters by the sliding rills ; 
Where berries grow, her lips she stains ; 
Her cheeks are tanned by winds and rains 

From those who seek her, fast she flies, 

But not to alien suns or skies ; 

Oft when afar her lovers roam, 

She bides beneath the vines at home. 

Few prize the maid, when face to face 
They see her lusty, full-blown grace; 
O fools and blind, alas ! alas ! 
Say, have you seen the maiden pass? 



204 The Harvest Home 



THE CHAMBER OF NIGHT 

DOES the time seem very long, 
While you lie beneath the grass. 
Listening to the blackbird's song 
And the wings that come and pass? 

Some a moment pause and wait — 
Shy wild things that love the trees — 

Gurgling to each feathered mate 
Little love-fraught symphonies. 

Are you weary lying there 

While the clouds float overhead, 

And, through cool and fragrant air, 
Sift their dews upon your bed? 

Do you never long to rise 

And, amid the ways of men, 
Catch the light of tender eyes, 

Llear some kindly speech again? 

Do you dream of seasons gone 
When the thorn was white with bloom, 

And behind the peaks of dawn 

Sank the winter's chill and gloom? 

Then love found you, and your heart. 
Brimmed with music like a bird's. 

Mid its vine-leaves sang apart, 

Raptured with its own sweet words. 



At the Gate of Dreams 205 



But the shadow doom-like fell, 

And the light died in eclipse. 
And the silence laid its spell 

On your heart and on your lips. 

And the summers come and go, 

And the sun wheels round and round, 
And the winter's punctual snow 
Softly wraps your peaceful mound. 

Are you thus content to lie, 

All so quiet in your place, 
Turning ever toward the sky 

Your unmoved and pallid face? 

Tell me, does there sometimes creep 
Through your veins the old desire, 

Sundering all the bonds of sleep, 
Mounting like a sudden fire? 

And as spring moves up the slope, 

In the fond voice of the dove 
Hear you, too, the voice of Hope, 

"Waken, waken, waken, love?" 

THYSELF 

FIND thine own voice and utter thine own heart 
Be thine own prophet of the misty years ; 
Be more of nature thine and less of art; 

Keep sweet the fount of laughter and of tears. 



2o6 The Harvest Home 



THE A V ANT-COURIER 

HO, death's outrider! dost thou wait 
Before my castle's ancient gate, 
And bid me, with imperious knock, 
Straightway the stubborn valves unlock? 
I know thy voice, thy grim disguise, 
The fever burning in thine eyes, 
Thine eager haste that none can stay. 
Thy summons brooking no delay. 
And wherefore are thou come so soon? 
The hour scarce marks mid-afternoon 
Upon the dial, and the sun 
Gives yet no hint that day is done; 
Not yet along my ways are shed 
Life's clustered roses, white and red — 
Still round the beaker's honeyed brim 
Joy's rainbow bubbles lightly swim. 
And whence, O Courier, hast thou fared, 
To bid a chamber be prepared 
For that weird guest, whose coming long 
I hoped to ward with wine and song? 
Go by, go by a little space ; 
I prithee, grant me of thy grace 
A little longer season yet 
My house in order fair to set, 
And fitly welcome, as seems best. 
So rare and so august a guest. 



At Tile Gate of Dreams 207 



Thou wilt not pass? I must descend 
To open unto thee, my friend? 
Be not impatient — hold thy hand, 
I come to do thy stern command. 
Lo ! thus the portals wide I fling ; 
I know the message thou dost bring, 
What urgent need hath spurred thy flight- 
My soul shall be required this night. 



ROMEO TO JULIET 

LOVE, touch my mouth with kisses as with fire ; 
Lean hard against my breast, that I may feel 

From thy warm heart its influence subtly steal 
Through all my veins ; with overmuch desire 
My spirit fainteth, and my lips suspire 

Swiftly with heavy breathings ; round me reel 

The shadows of the dark, and downward wheel 
The dim, far stars from heaven; draw me nigher 
Unto thy bosom, Love, for all my sense 

Of earth and time fleets from me . . . Day ward flows 
The stream of night, and into yon immense 

Blue void the slow moon fails ; hold me more close, 
Lest from thine arms my spirit hasten hence, 

Goins that viewless way no mortal knows. 



jo8 The Harvest Home 



EUTHANASIA 

HEARKEN, yea hearken, O Death! 
Sweet Death, thou shadowy nurse. 
With touches soft and cool; 
Thou art the lover and healer, 
The watcher thou and the soother 
Of all who suffer and weep. 
The bosom of thee is a refuge, 
A hiding-place and a fortress 
From tempest, from woe and misfortune. 
The face of thee is not evil 
To him who beholds thee and knows thee 
Gentle and pitiful ever. 
O gracious and grateful thy presence ! 
Thine eyes are filled with compassion, 
And thy countenance, tender and mild, 
Bringeth peace to disquieted spirits. 
Forth through the aisles of the woodlands, 
Through orchards where blossoms have sifted 
Their petals o'er green springing grasses, 
'Mid fields where the singing of birds 
And the breathing wind and the sunshine 
Are fraught with the promise of spring. 
Thou passest and touchest the bud, 
The blossom, the breast of the singer, 
And straightway they leave us, enchanted, 
Loving thee more than the world. 



At the Gate of Dreams 209 



The fragrance, the light, and the longing, 

The glory, the grace, and the gladness, 

The marvel, the mystery of all 

That we love or hold dear on the earth, 

Are forsaken, outrivaled, forgotten. 

When thou dost beckon away. 

Laughter and singing, 

Sobbing and crying, 

Seeking and losing, 

Sleeping and waking. 

Forever and ever 

In Death's house surcease. 

Restful thy silence 

After the tumult, 

Strife and confusion 

Born of the earth. 

Lay thy palm, cool and moist, on our foreheads, 

Till the fever, the aching and throbbing, 

And the phantoms brought forth of disease 

Shall vanish forever away. 

We praise thee, O Death, our physician! 

We love thee, O Death, for thy balm! 

We trust thee, companion and friend, 

For thou wilt not, thou canst not betray, 

Since thou art God's servant to men. 



•w The Harvest Home 



NOVA VITA 

"That which thou sowest is not quickened except it 
die/' i Cor. xv. 36 

DAINTY babe, thou wast too fair to die! 
What couldst thou have to do with writhing 
worms, 
With dank, dull clods, and the grave's mystery? 
What dim affinity with these blind germs, 
Which nature, when the time is ripe, shall change 
To waving corn, didst thou possess? O strange 
And dark to mortal vision are the ways 
Of Infinite Wisdom. Need'st thou, too, descend 
Into the earth's cold bosom with the maize, 
That fostering nature unto thee may lend 
Her subtlest powers of light and warmth and dew,. 
To make thee blossom into life anew? 
What sweeter charms, what graces rich and rare, 
Unknown to human love, shalt thou assume? 
O, than thou wast can there be aught more fair? 
Thy face was like a flower in its bloom, 
Delicate, pure and joyous, and thine eyes 
Deeper and bluer than yon deep blue skies. 
Lo ! I must fare along the weary years, 
Lonely and hopeless, seeing through my tears 
Only a low green mound of summer grass, 
Where once I hid thee in the peaceful keep 
Of Night and Silence, who shall rock thy deep 
Cool cradle, till I too one day shall pass 
Death's border unawares, and fall on sleep? 



At the Gate of Dreams 



UNCHANGEABLE 



BEHOLD the light upon the purple hill; 
Behold the undimmed glory of the sky; 
Look! as of old there singing goes the rill — 
Love, all things do not die. 

There gleams as bright an emerald in the grass 
As in those years when you and I were young; 

The restless birds that ever come and pass, 
Sing with as sweet a tongue. 

The flowers that spring on yonder sunny slope 
Are just as fair as flowers used to be; 

The world hath changed not! we have lost our hope, 
And we have changed, Love, we. 

Have lost our hope? nay, Love, our hope is found; 

Secure from change, secure from tempests wild, 
Forevermore our own, beneath the ground, 

O Love, we keep our child. 



A RUINED ROSEBUD 

WHERE the lamps flare beneath the rainy skies, 
On the drenched stones a sodden rosebud lies 
And nigh it, huddled in a loathsome heap, 
Maunders a wretched girl in drunken sleep. 



The Harvest Home 



THE MILK-MAID 



HER ankles brush the dew-wet grass ; 
The birds are blithe to see her pass ; 
Along the daisies, golden-bright, 
Run little shivers of delight. 
Her shining pail swings on her arm ; 
Within her hair the sun lies warm ; 
No cloud is in the morning skies ; 
No shadow veils her April eyes ; 
Songs gurgle from her heart and lips, 
As o'er the field she lightly trips, 
To where beside the smooth-worn gate 
Her swollen-uddered cattle wait. 
Yet ere her task she shall essay, 
She will not start and turn away 
If suddenly her cheek be pressed 
To happy Colin's lusty breast, 
The while upon her tender mouth 
He slakes love's oft-recurring drouth. 
Ah, who would not gray wisdom miss, 
To feel again the velvet kiss 
That thrilled the lyric heart of yore? 
Who — who would not be young once more? 



At the Gate of Dreams 213 



A PROTEST 

WHAT!— old! Not so! Who says we're old? 
Our life still keeps its morning gold; 
The dew still shines upon the grass 
Where'er our eager footsteps pass. 
Young Hope before us waves his wings, 
Lifts up his voice and bravely sings, 
While ambushed Joys, with twinkling eyes, 
Betray us into sweet surprise. 
No, we're not old; the lying years 
Have whispered falsehoods in our ears ; 
We still are young, and still we keep 
Our youth's fine wisdom, calm and deep — 
That wisdom which still holds in fee 
Faith in our own humanity, 
And faith in God who veils His face, 
But whose large language still we trace 
In blooms below and stars above, 
Whose burden was and still is — love. 
Old ? Fie ! Go to ! Let Gaffer Time 
On other's temples sow his rime. 
But howe'er wags his churlish tongue, 
Our own hearts tell us we are young. 



214 The Harvest Home 



THE ADVENT 

HER footsteps gleam upon the eastern slope, 
And beds of primrose blush beneath her tread; 
Her virgin eyes are luminous with hope, 
Her dewy locks down ripple from her head; 
Her feet are bare, her garments smell of myrrh. 
And all the little flowers lean to her. 

To greet her coming, lo ! the woods awake 

With jubilation, and the pasture-lands, 
Where rove the herds, are strewn with many a flake 

Of lambent fire, as by invisible hands; 

Deep unto deep sends forth its jocund call, 

The earth is glad, and God is over all. 



ARACHNE 

AH, poor Arachne, what availed thy skill? 
A mortal ne'er can match immortal art; 

Better it were that thou hadst brimmed thy heart 
With housewife thrift and peace, than thus to fill 
Thy life with anguish and the years with ill. 

What strange new pangs did through thy being dart, 

As loathly change crept o'er thee, part by part, 
When the proud goddess wrought on thee her will? 
Dost thou remember sadly those old days 

When all the maidens envied thy deft hands. 



At the Gate of Dreams 215 



And bitter in their ears was thy just praise? 

Now is thy sorrow told in many lands, 
And every gossamer by dewy ways 

Shines with thy tears that bead its silken strands. 

A CITY THOROUGHFARE 

THE flags are hot beneath my feet, 
And up and down the roaring street, 
'Twixt blazing fronts of brick and stone, 
No gracious breath of air is blown. 
I hear a wheezy violin 
Above the vast unceasing din, 
Where at the corner, with bare head, 
A beggar sits blind as the dead. 
There creeps misshapen, pale and lean, 
A cripple, in whose hands is seen 
A banner whoso runs may read, 
That "Levy never fails to lead 
In clothing and in shoes." Now loud 
Above the turmoil of the crowd, 
Straight through the city's throbbing heart, 
'Mid knots of vans that swiftly part. 
Its harsh gong pealing warningly, 
An ambulance goes dashing by. 
A newsboy shrieks and flaunts his wares; 
A truckman on the car-track swears 
And turns aside his ponderous dray, 
As the bell clangs to clear the way. 
There Beauty sweeps by Squalor's side ; 
There Vice and Fashion proudly ride ; 



216 The Harvest Home 



There still within his gilded gates 
Sits Dives, while gaunt Lazarus waits 
Outside, with dull and weary eye, 
For some kind soul to come and buy 
His shoestrings or his pins. 

And yet, 
I know a bank where ferns are wet 
With morning balm, where mosses grow, 
And 'mid lush sedges softly flow 
The netted currents of a stream 
Snared in its own melodious dream. 
There glance brave wings ; there many a sound 
Of silver bugles lightly wound 
Steals sweetly through the haunted shade 
Of grassy isle and bosky glade. 
And there lives faith in all things good ; 
There whispers stir the solitude 
Like prayers ; and there again grow bright 
The spirits that were clogged with night. 
There Care her haggard mask lays by 
To let young Hope smile in her eye, 
While every breeze from perfumed fields 
To Grief a sure nepenthe yields. 
There let me haste, there let me bide, 
Drenched with the opulent summer-tide. 



At The Gate of Dreams 21; 



PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR 

FROM sun to sun, on silence-sandled feet 
The Hours go by, and on each nunlike face 
Who will may catch a smile than dawn more sweet, 
Or, leaden-eyed, may miss its fleeting grace. 

Within her hands each bears a goodly gift, 
And while she neither proffers nor withholds, 

She tarries not to urge upon unthrift 
The precious things she yields to earnest souls. 

Not one returns ; no backward look is cast ; 

Once gone, nor call nor prayer can reach them more. 
Clasped round with shadows of the vanished past 

Housed in the dim, cloud-mantled gates of yore. 



HIS OWN RECEIVED HIM NOT 

NO, not the cross on which He hung, 
Nor biood that wet each bitter thorn, 
Nor cruel scourgings of hate's tongue, 

Nor yet the writhing thief's hot scorn — 
Not these His cup of woe could crown ; 

But that which crushed His heart with pain 
Was, that He came unto His own, 
And to them came, alas ! in vain. 



218 The Harvest Home 



A GREAT MAN 

SERENE he trod the awful verge of night, 
And on the black and weltering chaos there 
He looked with unaffrighted eyes, if so 
Some star of hope with softly pulsing heart 
He might discern. Against his brow he felt 
The thin cold air from myriad beating wings 
That rose from out the void and past him swept — 
The obscene things of darkness from the pit 
Rushing with raucous cries. A tranquil ear 
He bent to catch the secret whisperings 
Of unseen visitants whose rustling vans 
Betimes he heard beside him where he passed. 
He conned his own soul and its various needs. 
And felt the germs of immortality 
Stir in his nature. When he could not see, 
He still believed, and deemed that he was blest, 
Though men turned from him with averted face, 
And asp-like tongues spat venom on his name. 
The tearless pathos of humanity 
Touched to the quick his brooding sympathies, 
And the poor, brute-like, blindly struggling world 
Smote sometimes its bruised hands against his breast. 
Waking a stormy music from the tense 
And quivering chords strung like a wind-harp there. 
He meekly lived unconscious of himself, 
And being thus unconscious, he was great. 



At the Gate of Dreams 219 



THE CRISIS 

ALL night we watched the staring dial 
Within the chamber hushed and dim ; 
Faith trembled towards its hour of trial, 
Hope cowered amid the shadows grim. 

Outside, the night was drenched with rain ; 

Rude, viewless fingers tore the vines ; 
The winds whined at the window-pane, 

And grieved amid the rocking pines. 

We held our hearts, and waited still, 

Wliile came and went her fluttering breath, 

And on her drawn pale brow a chill 
Seemed to foretoken imminent death. 

And then we prayed ; our streaming eyes 
Ran down in tears ; when lo ! a rest 

Like balm bedewed us from the skies, 
And peace unmeasured filled each breast. 

Then from its glossy throat a bird 
Outsent a clear sweet note ; the mild 

Fresh morning woke; and joy! we heard 
Her dear voice call us, and she smiled. 



220 The Harvest Home 



THE PRISONER AND THE LARK 

What joyous things, he said, arc those larks in the 
spring sun! Do you know that pathetic story of the 
lark and of the man freed from the Bastile during the 
French Revolution? As he came from prison, some 
one took pity on him and gave him a few sous. Passing 
down the street, he saw a lark in a cage; and the man, 
who had been in prison many years, could not bear the 
sight of the imprisoned bird. With his few poor sous 
lie bought and set it free. The lark shot up to heaven 
singing a jubilant song of triumph — but the next mo- 
ment dropped dead at the man's feet, dead with excess 
of joy. — Memoir of Alfred Lord Tennyson. 

OUT of the prison, stooped and old, 
Out of the dungeon dank, he came ; 
The light on the pavement burned like gold; 
The blue of the skies was shot with flame. 

His eyes, so long in darkness bound, 
Wavered and blenched before the sun ; 

The city streets, with sound on sound, 
His shrinking spirit seemed to stun. 

Helpless and dazed, along the way 

His footsteps wandered here and there; 

The thin white locks on his shoulders lay ; 
He drank as athirst the free sweet air. 

Then some kind soul with pitying eyes 
Looked on those features worn and gaunt. 
The shadowy haggard mask of want. 

And saw beneath their wan surprise 



At the Gate of Dreams 221 



So into his tremulous pallid hand. 
The dole of a few poor sous was thrust ; 

There were famishing hosts in that moidered land 
The gift would purchase at least a crust. 

Down the long street, with feeble tread, 
Broken, bewildered, the old man went, 

As one alive who has long been dead. 

Or one in a desert whose strength is spent. 

But hark ! upon his startled ears 

What clear, sad notes are those that fall? 
What strain is that which again he hears? 

From his far-off youth what voices call? 

He sees once more the lucid streams 
That from the upland pastures flow; 

Beside the folded flock he dreams; 
At dawn he hears the red cock crow. 

He sees the cattle in the byre 

Where the gray dews of morning lie; 

With swelling throat and heart of fire 
The lark is fluting in the sky. 

But no ! as with a roar of rage 

The city strikes his vision dead; 
There in its narrow wicker cage 

A captive lark pipes o'er his head. 



The Harvest Homk 



With sudden tears his heart o'erflows ; 

Scarce one hour since he, too, was where 
The ruthless walls around him rose, 

And on him blew death's chilling air. 

Ah, piteous ! yonder hapless bird 
Its drooping wings shall beat in vain 

Against its bars ; be his the word 
To give it the free skies again. 

So from his tattered coat he drew 
The scanty coins ; now his the right 

To swing the cage-door wide ; upflew 
The lark with gurglings of delight. 

A moment there he hears that bliss 
O'er all the tumult of the street, 

A soaring song: — but what is this 
That falls and flutters at his feet? 

Poor little shattered thing, how brief 
The flight to freedom it did take ! 

O fainting one, bear thou thy grief ! 
With rapture, too, the heart can break. 



At the Gate of Dreams 223 



FROM AN ANCIENT URN 

STRANGER, pause; Felicitas, 
Or all of mortal that she was, 
Lies within this little urn ; 
Of her virtues wouldst thou learn, 
Of her truth-enkindled eye, 
Of her snow-white chastity, 
Of her nature wise and pure, 
Of her trust that did endure 
Past the falsehood, scorn and shame 
Heaped upon her spotless name? — 
Then within his lonely house 
Seek her weeping, widowed spouse: 
He will tell thee, through his tears, 
How amid these human years, 
Once a spirit from above 
Bore for him the flower of love, 
Till, from her brief exile here, 
She swiftly sought her native sphere. 



224 The Hakvkst Home 

ROBERT BROWNING 

(May 7, 1812) 

THITHER he came; before his ardent feet 
The ways divided ; in his eager face 
Glowed warm the light of pure resolve, and fleet, 

Soft zephyrs brought unto the charmed place 
Fine, mystic incense from some far-off clime. 
While o'er him breathed the morning in its prime. 

Three calm-eyed lustrous virgins nigh him stood, 
With rose-leaf lips curved in a tender smile ; 

He on them looked and knew that they were good. 
Then one, whose voice like music did beguile 

With dearest accents, wooed him from the spot; 

He bowed and hearkened, but he answered not. 

The second spake : before his quickened eyes 

Fair scenes uprose ; clear streams their lengths un- 
rolled 

Through wide and luminous valleys picture-wise; 
The blue o'erhead was flecked with white and gold; 

Him then with brush and palette did she prove, 

But still his waiting spirit did not move. 

The third that called him bore a golden lyre 
Against her bosom, and unfading bays 

Girt her smooth brow; then sudden sweet desire 
Upleaped within him, and immortal lays 

From out his inmost heart unbidden came. 

While all his life burned toward her like a flame. 



At the Gate of Dreams 225 



And lo, he worshiped at her shining feet, 
Then rose to follow her o'er many a waste; 

He hungered, and she gave him tears for meat; 
She slaked his thirst with waters harsh to taste; 

Thus having found him steadfast to the core, 

She turned on him a radiant face once more. 

Ye ministers of fire, ye flaming seers, 

High prophets of the soul, with you consort 

One who hath place among his own great peers, 
One who hath seen the elements disport 

In vast abysses where the thunders sleep, 
And noisome dragons their fell vigils keep. 

And his the glory and the equal dower 

Of star-crowned love and beauty passionless ; 

The eloquence of the golden-hearted flower, 
The faith that wrestles in the wilderness; 

Still fares he forth from dawn-lit paths dew-pearled, 

A singing pilgrim through a singing world. 



A PAVEMENT FOSSIL 

AEONS ago, in its primeval slime, 
It throve throughout that dim chaotic morn, 
When the long twilight of unfolding time 
Still brooded o'er a world but lately born. 



jjb The Harvest Home 



On the palimpsest of the sodden clay, 
The obscene creatures that did fly or creep 

Left the rude record of their uncouth play 
And conflicts with the dragons of the deep. 

An unimagined day of raucous cries. 

Through air obscured by countless bat-like wings. 
Of monsters, roaring at the shuddering skies, 

In deadly fight with mailed and scaly things. 

Then the earth groaned in travail ; mighty throes 
Rent her huge ribs asunder, as the floods 

In weltering gulfs o'er sinking mountains rose. 
While new peaks burst from the waste solitudes. 

But the unstable waves roll back again. 

And from the laboring bosom of the world, 

As from a prostrate Titan mad with pain, 

The reeking continents are once more uphurled. 

So the vast drama surges on, and still 
O'er all the life dissolved in dust and night 

Life mounts and triumphs evermore, until 

Man lifts his thought-wreathed brow towards the light. 

And here where the great city, street by street, 
Pours its full tides with ceaseless ebb and flow, 

Unheeded and unheeding, myriad feet 
Spurn this dull relic of the long ago. 



At The Gate of Dreams 22; 



None reads the lesson; after noise and strife, 
Darkness and silence; o'er man's fallen head, 

Far ages hence, perhaps some higher life 
In crowded marts may pass with busy tread. 

If then about the world blow kindlier airs, 
If fairer eves and sweeter mornings shine, 

And hearts no longer break beneath their cares, 
For all the old*life gone who shall repine? 



IN THE MARKET PLACE 

OMUSE, we have piped, but none have danced, 
And now we sit in the market-place, 
(While the shadows of noon on the flags lie tranced), 
With idle lingers and drooping face. 

Why should we vex our souls to send 
Our laboring breath through the hollow reed? 

No ears are charmed, save those that bend 
To scrannel straws at the lips of greed. 

Come, let us rise from these sordid ways; 

Let us flee to the conscious woods and streams, 
And though we have fallen on evil days, 

We will dwell apart and keep our dreams. 



jj& The Harvest Home 



AFTER THE BRIDAL 



SO, she was reared for this, 
To leave the house silent at last! 
No singing more, 
No laughter nor young bliss; 
Out from my door, 
Out from the dove-white past, 
She goes ne'er to return a maid ; 
All unafraid 

She passes into the great world with him. 
Does he so love her then 
That, dwarfing love of other men. 
His love out-towers the thought and care,. 
The eyes with vigils dim. 
The daily toiling and the secret prayer, 
That forge a parent's life? 
To be a wife ! 

O little daughter with the shining hair, 
O youthful maiden with the dainty feet, 
O tender woman in whose glances meet 
The spring and summer sweet, 
That thou mightst find thy mate 
Is this thy filial gift? — this desolate 
And sunless room 
Where, clothed with gloom, 
A bowed and broken man, 
His days a span, 

Sits through long vacant watches still to stare 
Across a widowed hearthstone chill and bare. 



At the Gate of Dreams 229 



WITHDRAWN 

WHERE nun-faced violets, dashed with silver dew, 
Hide in the moss-lipped hollows of the bank, 
And slender osier wands, reared rank on rank, 
Sway o'er the waters kissed to heaven's own blue; 
Where breathing winds balsamic odors strew 
Far sweeter than Persephone e'er drank 
In that pale garden where dream-zephyrs prank 
The dim gray slopes with rosemary and rue — 

There dwells she whose white soul is like the eve 
When the clear sun has vanished from the skies, 

And the large stars, amid the twilight, weave 

Through trance-hushed leaves their wizard traceries ; 

There steal no rumors of the world to grieve 
The lucid innocence of her calm eyes. 



THE PURSUIT OF FAME 

I FOLLOW, follow, but I win it not; 
I see its golden radiance from afar 
Through leagues of darkness fallen like a blot 
On the wide landscape; still I seek the star. 

I seek the star, yet know not surely where 
The pathway lies by tangled wood and fen; 

The night is chill, and through the ghostly air 
Thin voices call again and yet again. 



The Harvest Home 



I see it wavering through the hollow dark; 

Anon it brightens, sinks, and seems to die ; 
Then slowly kindles like a little spark, 

Until it throbs and burns against the sky. 

And when 'tis mine at length, and wearied quite 
I pause forspent where winds blow cool and damp, 

I find, mid mocking whispers of the night, 
Naught but a firefly bearing his small lamp. 



THE NEWCOMER 

I HEAR a little footstep 
Fall lightly on the floor, 
And slowly on its hinges turns. 
The half -reluctant door. 

A child stands on the threshold. 
Dimpled and shy and fair, 

With baby finger at his lips, 
And soft wind-ruffled hair. 

He pauses for a word or nod. 
Betwixt a smile and tear ; 

Ah, let me bid him welcome — ■ 
It is the infant vear. 



At the Gate of Dreams 231 



MILTON 

A WINGED and radiant spirit, yet a man! 
A man of mortal passions, mortal wants — 
A man of simple pleasures, hopes, and griefs, 
And who at last like us must needs fare out 
Upon that dim and undiscovered way 
Whither earth's generations wend from sight. 
To him man's life was as an open page 
Whereon he read the riddle of the years, 
And nature was a vast apocalypse. 
Earth was to him a treasure house wherein 
His riches lay, and from its darksome crypts 
At his quick summons came its secrets forth, 
Trooping, obedient, the vassals of his will. 
He knew the seas, and all their myriad life 
To him became a mystic revelation, 
Beautiful, mutable, ceaseless, and he heard 
In the small ripples tinkling on the beach 
Voices and words and syllables of love. 
Listening, he caught the accents of the storm. 
Hearing therein no sounds of violence, 
But the large, lofty converse of a friend. 
Considering the lilies of the field, 
The grass, the wayside hedge, he heard their speech, 
And every trembling leaflet spake to him 



232 The Harvest Home 



In a divine, mysterious utterance 

He understood alone. He made him friends 

Of brooks and birds and rocks and hills and woods, 

Interpreting their language with his heart, 

And heaven's high arcana were his joys. 

The sun and moon and stars sphered all their light 

About his pathway, fending evil shapes 

And shadowy horrors, and dark, skulking wrongs, 

Born of a leprous, foul, volcanic age, 

From him their child, their prophet, priest and king. 

His mind was not like theirs who cannot hold 

Resolve for one brief moment, but through years 

He followed to its splendid consummation 

A steadfast plan ; nor did he coyly touch 

A theme that saintliest souls this world e'er knew 

Scarce dare to dream of, but he freely dwelt 

In heavens of beauty and in hells of terror, 

Where lesser minds, benumbed and silence-smit. 

And whelmed in seas of gloom ineffable, 

Down to swift, nether gulfs of night had sunk. 

Ere darkness on the windows of his soul 

Fell and forever quenched the light without, 

He doted on fair Nature's loving face 

That smiled and lightened on him where he moved. 

He turned his forehead to the vaulted sky. 

And saw the miracle of the night and day. 

And read the signs of love and peace in all. 

But when to him these were forever veiled. 

Within the effulgence of his own great soul 

He sat, and with invisible things communed, 



At the Gate of Dreams 233 



Dwelling with those vast beings of his brain, 
And holding discourse with the hoary past. 
The hidden archives of his life contained 
Records whereof the occult charactery 
Angels alone might read. A wider realm 
Was that wherein he moved than others claimed. 
He bade his spirit flee from zone to zone. 
And range inviolate lands of snow and ice. 
Where sleeps the frozen silence of the poles. 
All things conveyed a meaning unto him ; 
Nothing was useless, nothing base or mean, 
Which had sprung forth from the Creative Hand. 



MAIDEN AND BRIDE 

SHE moves amid a surf of wind-blown flowers ; 
I see her where her garments flow and shine ; 
Her tresses, Danae-like, in golden showers 
Ripple from off her lyric brow and twine 
About her supple throat, while in her eyes 
The haunting spirit of youth unshadowed lies. 

A shy sweet smile about her parted lips 
Hovers in rosy dimples ; on her breast, 

As jealous of the buds there in eclipse 

Of foam-white blooms, one tender hand is pressed 

She loves and dreams round all the meadows wide, 

Till May the maiden shall be June the bride. 



234 The Harvest Home 



R. L. S. 

PRITHEE turn, O passer-by, 
In this green inclosure lie 
All the graces that could lend 
Fragrance to the name of "friend"; 
Knightly instincts, kindly deeds, 
Swift response to life's deep needs. 
Courtesies that did not fail, 
Sympathies that ne'er grew stale. 
Home of finest thoughfulness, 
And those impulses that bless 
Bowed and stricken humankind, 
While to make malice nobly blind, 
Was the man that moulders here : 
So to nature he is dear, 
And the heavens that o'er him bend 
Daily breathe, "He was a friend." 



DEFEATED 

I FOLLOW not by paths I knew of yore 
The way to heart-peace and unvexed content ; 
The strenuous wrestlings of my soul are o'er; 
The strength that bore me onward, now is spent. 

Here will I stay mc in this quiet place, 

Far from the strivings of the clamorous world ; 

The lucid dews shall lave my parched face, 

The night's cool shades shall o'er me be unfurled. 



At the Gate of Dreams 235 



I will not question more of well or ill, 
Or why I failed within the bannered lists ; 

Welcome this hour, the evening's gloom and chill, 
The silent woodlands and the silver mists. 

The whip-poor-will wails from his dusk retreat; 

The firefly's mimic lightning in the grass 
Flames where one pallid blossom at my feet 

Breathes its sweet incense on the winds that pass. 

Gone are the day's rude noises and alarms ; 

Shorn and defeated, lo ! I seek but rest ; 
O soothing night, fold round me thy wide arms, 

Pillow my head upon thy generous breast. 

LITTLE FOOTFALLS 

NO, never the rhythm of showers in summer more 
lightly beat 
On leaves all quivering with joy at the cooling kiss 
of the rain, 
Than on my thirsty ears fell the patter of tiny feet 
And the sound of a silvery voice a-gurgle with laugh- 
ter again. 

For who can measure the silence bodeful as that of death 
When in the hushed, dim chamber, where white, 
drawn faces peer, 
Above the broken whispers flutters a gasping breath, 
And the pale lids curtain the eyes than all besides 
more dear? 



236 The Harvest Home 



None, none can fathom the stillness that steals from 
room to room 
Whence one small presence has passed, like a sudden 
light gone out, 
And none can know the horror of irrevocable gloom, 
Save those the life of whose darling hangs in the 
scales of doubt. 

Ah, how the shadows are lifted, and the joy-bells throb 
again, 
And the heart sings in the bosom like a dawn- 
awakened bird. 
When little feet turn backward from the Valley of Loss 
and Pain, 
And the music of fairy footfalls once more in the 
house is heard. 



ANTICIPATION 

NO rose can shut and be a bud again ; 
Sometime, my darling, you will understand 
Why I am greedy of these moments when 

Against my breast I hold your little hand, 
And watch the curves and dimples of your face. 
And all your beauty and vour flower-like grace. 



At the Gate of Dreams 237 



For the swift current of the ceaseless years 
Shall bear you on their bosom to life's main, 

Where tempests rage and hearts grow sick with fears, 
And the black shadow waits whose name is Pain; 

Then this sweet brow shall wear a crown of care, 

And I, my dear one, I shall not be there. 

O tender feet, the Way is rough and steep; 

O violet eyes, your vigils must be long; 
So while I may, in love's nest let me keep 

My precious baby safe from any wrong; 
Kiss me with lips still pure and undented, 
For sometime I shall lose you, O rny child. 



THE UPPER REALMS 

SERENE, apart, unvexed of clamant years, 
As the lean-headed eagles build on high 

Mid towering crags, and see the clouds go by 
Far down with lightnings torn and know no fears, 
So where old Time his austere front uprears 

Against the cold and solitary sky, 

I've seen the morn's imperious banners fly, 
And stars expiring weep celestial tears. 
Lonely but glad, calm but not cheerless grown, 

I've heard the solemn converse of the night, 
Have caught the low and inarticulate moan 

Of pines upon the immemorial height; 
Yet my rapt soul has dwelt not all alone, 

For lucid wings have o'er me stayed their flight. 



238 The Harvest Home 

VOX DOLORIS 

(Jerusalem, B. C, 458) 

NAY, but I loved thee so — and love thee still : 
Look, didst thou not, when thou a stranger wast 

In my far Babylon, the bright, the vast, 
Lead me the happy bondmaid of thy will? 
Why wilt thou put me from thee? What dire ill 

Have I wrought on thy heart? I hold thee fast, 

And cling and cry till life's last hope is past, 
And faith grows sick with fears that scorch and kill. 
Is thy God cruel, that this needs must be? 

Canst thou forget the love, the dear delight, 
The song, the dance, the mirth and minstrelsy, 

Wherewith the swift days fled, too brief and bright? 
Shall not our babes' sweet voices cry to thee, 

Through all the hollow watches of the night? 



AT SUNSET 

NOW that the toilful day is done, 
I rest me here awhile, 
And loose my burdens, one by one. 

Where the slant sunrays isle 
This little bosk in meadows fair, 

Far from the noisy beat 
Of clashing hoofs, on pavements bare, 
And tread of hurrying feet. 



At the Gate of Dreams 239 



Cool waftures from the twilight wood 

Breathe balm upon my eyes ; 
The shy sweet peace of solitude 

Like dew about me lies; 
Thin vapors lift their filmy veils 

Upon the evening air, 
And every conscious bloom exhales 

The perfume of a prayer. 



VANISHED 

IT was but yesterday I saw his sheep, 
The while he led them up the height to feed. 

And heard him merrily pipe upon his reed, 
And mock the echoes from yon rocky steep ; 
'Twas yesterday I found him fast asleep, 

His flock forgot and wantoning in the mead, 

His pipe flung lightly by with idle heed, 
And shadows lying round him, cool and deep. 
But though I seek I shall not find him more, 

In dewy valley or on grassy height; 
I listen for his piping — it is o'er, 

From out mine ears gone is the music quite; 
There on the hill the sheep feed as before, 

But Pan, alas, has vanished from my sight! 



240 The Harvest Home 



A VOICE FROM RAMA 

LITTLE face in darkness hid away; 
O shining head, thy pillow now is cold; 
Fond eyes, that shall not greet the waking day, 
About thee lie the shadows, fold on fold. 

I cannot touch thee, darling, though I lean 
Till in the grass above thee my sad brow 

Is buried quite ; alas ! the baffling screen 
Is ne'er removed; I cannot reach thee now. 

How strange it is, to thee I am so near, 
And yet thou answerest not my soul's deep call; 

Is the dark palpitant around thee, dear? 
Dost feel my love like dew upon thee fall? 

Thou liest quiet in thy narrow room, 

Forgetting how Spring's mounting tides rejoice 

What weird is woven in thy starless gloom, 
To seal thy rosebud lips and hush thy voice? 

I hunger for thee, sweet; thy balmy kiss 
My starved lips here shall never feel again; 

The lyric music of thy feet I miss ; 
I listen for thy laughter all in vain. 

I stumble on through blinding mists of tears, 
In clamorous ways of toil, because I must; 

Waste is the earth and void are all the years ; 
O child, my heart lies with thee in the dust. 



At the Gate of Dreams 241 



SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE 

SING a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, 
Bees are in the clover, and clouds are sailing 
high; 
All the world's before us, there are birds in every tree, 
And to the music that they make our hearts dance mer- 
rily ; 
Lambs frisk in the meadows, and silver fishes gleam, 
Hourly playing hide and seek, in every sunny stream. 

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, 
On the upland pastures the dew is scarcely dry; 
Who would mope in corners o'er dull and musty books, 
When the flowers are blowing in a thousand fragrant 

nooks ? 
Squirrels among the leafy boughs are leaping free from 

care, 
And butterflies are flitting through the summer air. 

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, 

On the green slopes of the hills how to good to rest 

the eye! 
Leave awhile the tyrant lessons ; barefoot o'er the grass 
Chase the flying shadows, nor heed the hours that pass; 
To the fields and forests hasten, lads, away; 
Sing a song of sixpence — let us live to-day. 



242 The Harvest Home 



THE HEART OF A BOY 

OUT of the leafy twilight, hearken ! again and again, 
Slaking the thirsty noontide, falls the melodious 
rain 
Of the wood-thrush where, in the coolness and green- 
ness, he sits apart 
And poet-like gives to the silence the wealth of his 
affluent heart. 

The shepherd that stands on the hillslope, over his 

slanted crook 
Leaning his shaggy bosom, listens, and hard by the 

brook 
The bell-wether leading the flock pauses a moment to 

hear, 
Dimly aware of the sweetness breathed in his sluggish 

ear. 

Hushed are the whispering leaves, and the waters that 

softly creep 
O'er the pebbles that gleam in the shallows murmur as 

if in sleep, 
And the frog on the oozy marge, with iris and reeds 

overgrown, 
Muffles his voice in his throat and lies as still as a 

stone. 



At the Gate of Dreams 243 



O grace of the halcyon day! O song from the dusk 

woodside ! 
To the naked sun-browned lad dabbling his feet in the 

tide, 
However the years may run with error and sorrow rife, 
Ye are a living memory — ye are a part of life. 

The world may be swathed in vapors, or drowned in 

the rushing rain, 
And eyelids heavy with weeping may watch for the 

dawn in vain, 
Yea, quenched in tears as of blood may be many a 

later joy, 
But never that song from the upland stored in the 

heart of a boy. 



LOVE'S NAMES 

THE names which from my heart uprise, 
Whene'er I think of thee, 
Throb, like the dusk of star-lit skies, 
With ceaseless melody; 

Names which 'twere past a mortal's skill 

To say or sing aright, 
But which bright spirits breathe and thrill 

The raptured ear of night. 



The Harvkst Home 



A SONG OF THE HILLTOP 

TO the hilltop let us go; 
Squirrels are hiding there, I know 
And in fir-trees thick and tall, 
Hour by hour, the cat-birds call; 
Bow and arrow in our hand, 
On the hilltop let us stand. 

Hunters blithe and bold are we, 
And we range the forests free, 
Each a merry Robin Hood, 
Loving well the leafy wood ; 
Bearing still the self-yew bow, 
To the hilltop let us go. 

There the breezes fresh and sweet 
Ripple o'er the fields of wheat 
And the mimic waterfalls 
Leap and laugh with elfin calls ; 
Up, the day is in its prime, 
They but lose who fear to climb. 



A NATIVITY 

HE came when the petals of the rose were blown 
Down the long aisles of windy woodlands, where 
The leaves fell thick as raindrops through the air, 
And half-choked runnels made incessant moan. 



At the Gate of Dreams 245 



He came, from Paradise but lately flown, , 

Upon his brow the halo angels wear, 

And in his eyes the memory of the fair 
Far scenes of blessedness that they had known. 
O miracle of life, continued still, 

Though earth's frail generations wend from sight, 
And nameless shadows of the darkness fill 

The orbs that turn toward the coming night, 
Thine is the pledge that morn again shall thrill 

Our wakened souls with music of the light. 



CRADLE SONGS 
I 

HUSH-A-BYE, hush-a-bye, little feet, go 
Down the cool slopes where the dream-flowers 
grow, 
Down to the stream where the sleep-zephyrs blow, 
Low — ah, low — 
Lighter than snow, 
Brushing the slumber-dews, little feet, go. 

Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, shut, little eyes ; 

Home to her nestlings the sparrow-bird flies; 

Now with her cuddled lamb, stilling its cries, 

Lies — ah, lies 

Under the skies 

The woolly ewe-mother ; shut, shut, little eyes. 



246 The Harvest Home 



Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye, little one, sleep ; 
Now the moon-shepherdess, barefoot Bo-peep 
Leads all her starry flock up the blue steep; 
Sweep — ah, sweep- 
Out to the deep, 
Dearest of voyagers ; little one sleep. 



II 



THIS is the road to Sleepy-town — 
Barefoot-highway, dusky-brown, 
Where the sandman waits with blinking eyes, 
Selling fresh dreams from Paradise, — 
"Who buys, who buys, 
Fresh new dreams from Paradise?" 

This is the road to Sleepy-town : 

Shadows are falling over the down ; 

The night-moth flits and the black bat flics, 

And the sandman follows with blinking eyes, — 

"Who buys, who buys, 

Fresh new dreams from Paradise?" 

This is the road to Sleepy-town, 

Where travelers go in a milk-white gown. 

To enter the ivory gates that rise v 

At the end of the way where the sandman cries, 

"Who buys, who buys, 

Fresh new dreams from Paradise?" 



At the Gate of Dreams 247 



III 



WHAT do they do in Bylo-land, 
Silvery, shadowy Bylo-land? 
They swing no bat, they fly no kite ; 
The tattered dolls are forgotten quite; 
But out through the gates of the City of Night 
The little ones glide in garments white 
To beautiful Bylo-land. 

What do they hear in Bylo-land, 
Glimmering, mystical Bylo-land? 

Ah, little ears hear wonderful things ; 

Snatches of song that mother sings 

When the light sinks low, and the rocker swings ; 

And lullaby sounds from hidden springs 
In the hills of Bylo-land. 

How win them back from Bylo-land, 

Magical, emerald, Bylo-land, 

When the last faint star in heaven dies, 
And the dusk grows wan where the mountains rise, 
When the great sun climbs the yellow skies, 
Then mother's kisses on drowsy eyes 

Woo back from Bylo-land. 

IV 

WHISPER, whisper out of the west, 
Fold thy plumes o'er my birdling's nest, 
Come, O wind, whence the poppies blow, 
Come whence the lullaby fountains flow, 



24S The Harvest Home 



Come with kisses soft and sweet 

For tired little eyes and tired little feet. 

Whisper, whisper ont of the south ; 
Drop thy balm on the wee red mouth ; 
Come, O wind, from the palm and pine, 
From the trailing moss and the tangled vine 
Come with touches soft and sweet 
On tired little eyes and tired little feet. 



V 



Sleep, sleep, my babe, night will not harm thee. 

Nor care disturb thy happy rest ; 
Here shalt thou lie, here shalt thou warm thee. 

Safe sheltered on thy mother's breast. 

Sleep, baby, sleep, my heart thy pillow ; 

Thee love from evil hap shall guard ; 
The moon hangs bright o'er yonder willow ; 

Above, dear God keeps watch and ward. 

O baby mine, what peace infolds thee ! 

Beneath thee is Love's tender arm : 
The Gentle Shepherd sweetly holds thee — 

He shields his helpless lambs from harm. 

Then sleep, my babe, no tongue shall chide thee 
On thee shall blow no wind unblest ; 

O baby, in my heart I hide thee, 

There make thy bed, there take thy rest. 



At the Gate of Dreams 249 



VI 



WHITHER stray you, dimple-feet? 
Winds are blowing fresh and sweet 
From the dim dream-mountains ; 
By what pathways do you go 
Where the magic waters flow 
From the cool sleep-fountains? 

Far and fair the landscape lies; 
Cloudless are the sapphire skies 

Which lean softly over ; 
There bright birds that blithely sing, 
Low of voice and light of wing, 
Round you ever hover. 

Tiny stranger, traveling still 
From the dew-wet purple hill 

Wreathed with bud and blossom. 
When the shapes of sleep are fled, 
Wake to find your little head 

Safe on mother's bosom. 

VII 

Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green, 
Over thy slumbers the cool branches lean, 
Bees in thy bower are crooning their song, 
Leaves whisper round thee all the day long, 
Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the skies, 
Rock-a~bye, rock-a-bye, shut, little eyes. 



250 The Harvest Home 



Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green, 
Tiny brown mothers their soft feathers preen. 
While the dear birdlings are hushed in the nest 
And the light breezes blow out of the west, 
Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the skies, 
Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. 

"Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green, 

Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen," 

Sweet as the dew's in the cups of the flowers, 

Love sheds its balm on thee through the bright hours ; 

Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, blue are the skies,. 

Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, shut little eyes. 

VIII 

OVER and over, and under and under, 
Sleep is a rover through dream-lands of wonder, 
Over the rivers and over the leas, 
Under the mountains and under the seas ; 
Out of the sunlight, 
Into the dun night, 
Sleep on wings downy-gray 
Flits with my babe away. 

Under and under, and over and over, 

By meadows and mountains still loiters the rover, 

Where through the buttercups yellow as gold 

Winds the young lambs to the peace of the fold : 

Out of the sunlight. 

Into the dim night. 



At the Gate of Dreams 251 



Sleep on wings downy-gray 
Flits with my babe away. 

IX 

SLEEP, O my babe, not thine a manger 
Where cradled lies thy helpless head 
No oxen low, dear little stranger, 
And wondering stare above thy bed ; 
Thou need'st not weep ; 
Ah, slumber deep, 
For fond hearts wake while thou dost sleep, 
And light as dews shed from the skies 
Love shuts the violets of thine eyes; 
Not in a stall 
Love's kisses all 
As soft as rose-leaves on thee fall. 



THE BETTER PART 

FOR me the hearth-fire light, 
The candle's glow; 
For her the wintry night, 
The drifting snow. 

For me the fireside chair, 

The open book; 
For her the frigid air, 

The churchyard nook. 



_?=_> The Harvest Home 



For me the lowing kinc. 

The village bell; 
For her the winds that whine 

About her cell. 

For me the shadowy rooms, 
The nameless dread; 

For her the starless glooms, 
The narrow bed. 

For me the lonely heart, 

The aching breast; 
Her's is the better part, 

She is at rest. 



SAPPHO 

WHERE is that bay-crowned head supreme ir 
song ? 

The tides that darkle round the Leucadian steep 

Lap her forever into deeper sleep; 
About her heart of fire the cool waves long 
Like cerements have been wound, and voices strong 

Of winds and waters o'er her pillow keep 

Their boisterous lullaby. That frenzied leap 
From the hoar height, when sense of sharpest wrong 
Ran in her blood like flame — the fears that strove 

Within her stormy soul — the lyric tongue 



At the Gate of Dreams 253 



Whose last high music rang through realms of love. 

Till hushed by that sea-weird which o'er her Aung- 
Its sudden doom, — ah, all the dole thereof 

No equal tears have wept, no lips have sung. 



COME SLOWLY, PARADISE 

ODA WN upon me slowly, Paradise ! 
Come not too suddenly, 
Lest my just-opened, unaccustomed eyes 

Smitten with blindness be. 
To those who from Time's penury and woe 

Rise to thy heights afar, 
Down which the floods of glory fall and flow, 

Too great thy splendors are. 
So grow upon me slowly; sweetly break 

Across death's silent deep, 
Till to thy morning brightness I shall wake 

As one from happy sleep. 
While still the grains sift from the crystal bowl, 
Into the dark the feasters turn and go, 



THE TWO SPIRITS 

I DREAMED two spirits came — one dusk as night: 
"Mortals miscall me Life," he sadly saith; 
The other, with a smile like morning light, 
Flashed his strong wings, and spake, "Men name me 
Death." 



254 The Harvest Home 



AFTER THE FEAST 

THE music dies, and one by one the guests 
Rise and depart; the merriment is done; 
Hushed are the mingled voices, songs and jests; 

From the spent glass the noiseless sands are run. 
Into the dark the feasters turn and go. 

Some with brave smiles, and some with heavy eyes 
The drooping flowers are pale, the lights burn low, 

And silence on the empty chambers lies. 
The last "good-night" is said ; closed is the door ; 

Then slowly, down the blossom-littered floor, 
The weary master casts a wistful eye, 

Peopling the gloom with ghostly company. 

CLEOPATRA TO ANTONY 

GO from me now ; I will no longer feel 
Your burning kisses on my fevered lips ; 

You shall not hold one moment ev'n the tips 
Of my shut fingers, though you cry and kneel. 
My face aches, and my tired senses reel ; 

Through all my veins a drowsy poison slips, 

My sight grows dim with gradual eclipse, 
For slumber on mine eyes has set his seal. 
Get hence; I will no more to-night; the bars 

Of love are placed against you now; go while 
I hate you not, my Roman ; the sick stars 

Wax faint and pallid in the dawn's red smile. 
Look! I am quenched in sleep, as nenuphars 

Are quenched in the broad bosom of the Nile. 



At the Gate of Dreams 



THE CHANGELESS ROUND 

WHERE is the light that bathed of yore 
This pathway through the glade — 
The robe of glory nature wore. 

Trailing in sun and shade? 
And elfin minstrels wake no more 
The pipes whereon they played. 

O wizard memory ! thine the spell 

That, to the inner eye, 
Calls up the scenes once loved so well, 

Finding in earth and sky 
The glow that in them used to dwell, 

None other could descry. 

Still sudden wonders thrill the air 

And in the pulses beat; 
Down woodland ways some wandering pair 

The heart's dear lore repeat ; 
Young faces find each other fair, 

And plighted troth is sweet. 

Time ever treads his age-long round; 

Still morning, many hued, 
Sows faery fires along the ground 

Where they of old were strewed ; 
And love, so oft in cerements wound. 

Is endlessly renewed. 



25< : ' The Harvest UjoUe 

A POET'S GRAVE 

I 

AY, grant it, friend, it is a lowly bed. 
Pranked with the daisies that he held so dear, 

And with the pale, pure violets nodding near, 
Like those he clasped when first they found him dead. 
To curious questioners let it be said : 

"He sang his songs the world paused not to hear, 

And now he lieth where no late, slow tear 
Can answer for the love he sought instead." 
Young ? Yes, ah very young he was to die ; 

He had so much to live for! His was joy 
Unspeakable to see the morning lie 

Upon the hills, and bliss without alloy 
To see the sunset flush along the sky ; 

But dawn nor dusk shall wake him now — poor boy ! 



II 



He loved the sunlight and he loved the rain ; 

He loved the darkness and he loved the light; 

He loved the morning and he loved the night; 
He loved the meadows and he loved the main. 
To see the springtime blossom he was fain, 

And winter's snows were goodly in his sight; 

Yea, all the seasons in their rapid flght 
Brought joy to him. though not unmixed with pain. 



At the Gate of Dreams 257 



But now he lieth where the fallen leaf 
Begets no vague regret within his breast, 

And never summer-tide, however brief, 

Can mar the sweetness of his hallowed rest. 

He sleeps secure from dreams of joy or grief, 
And in his dreamless slumber he is blest. 



HER HOME-COMING 

WHERE, on green banks, through still and dreamy 
hours, 
The yellow sunlight slumbered all day long, 
Steeping in golden mists the drowsy flowers, 
Hushing in sweet content the whitethroat's song, 
Now cool soft flakes are slowly sifted down 
Round withered stalks and branches bare and 
brown. 

But though, with trailing clouds and frowning skies, 

Winter hath come to shroud the world in white, 
Within my singing heart old splendors rise, 
And June still bathes the world in rosy light; 
For one dear face that vanished with the May, 
After waste, weary months, returns today. 



258 The Harvest Home 



THE SPINNING WHEEL 

HOW oft of yore her gentle hand 
Guided the slender thread. 
As the wheel, swiftly whirling, fanned 
The curls about her head. 

Her eyes, like dew-wet pansies, shone 

W r ith innocence and truth : 
Her brow, pure as white roses blown, 

Was wreathed with virgin youth, 

Here, when the evening skies were clear, 

In yonder wicker chair 
He sat and watched her, leaning near, 

And deemed naught else so fair. 

Fled are the days of long ago, 
The morning's vanished prime; 

Nor summer's sun, nor winter's snow, 
Brings back the old sweet time. 

Long since the busy wheel was still. 

And dust lies round it deep, 
While star-eyed daisies, on the hill, 

Lean o'er her quiet sleep. 



At the Gate of Dreams 259 

LONGFELLOW 

{March 24, 1882) 

WITHIN the old historic house he lay, 
Quiet at last in restless heart and brain; 

Without his chamber the wan light did wane 
And the March twilight gathered, chill and gray. 
But all unheedful of the wasting day, 

He lay and slept ; and still he sleeps ; in vain 

The morning sun shall gild his window-pane — 
His soul hath fared forth on an unknown way. 
O sweetest psalmist of our Israel, 

What new glad words now thrill upon thy tongue! 
In what far country hast thou gone to dwell? 

Through what fresh changes are thy numbers rung? 
Lo ! thou didst leave us, taking no farewell, 

And now we weep that thy last song is sung. 



"SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY" 

YEA, could it be, yea could it be, that so 
From out this weltering rout of nights and days, 
From out this wild and melancholy maze 
Of thorny paths that wander to and fro, 
We might at will to some fair country go, 
Where hour by hour around the bloomy ways 
The jasmine-scented, happy wind-breath plays, 
And gurgling waters past broad meadows flow — 



260 The Harvkst Home 



Then, would it better be, thus from this round 
Of conflict, toil and tears, wherein men's thews 

Are tried, to go where peans ne'er shall sound, 
Nor gentle Pity weep her precious dews? 

Ah no ! — flowers crushed against the unconscious ground 
Give back their perfume to the feet that bruise. 



BLIND 

WHEN first my soul into the shadows sank, 
And darkness surged upon me like a wave, 

I fought the blackness, as a swimmer brave 
Who, losing from his grasp the friendly plank, 
Goes struggling down through ocean's great gray blank. 

Then, as one buried trance-bound in a grave 

Wakes to the horror of his narrow cave, 
And shuddering in his cere-cloths, cold and dank, 
Strives to pierce through the void and noisome gloom, 

I strove to cleave the night that wrapped me round, 
And cried aloud from out my living tomb. 

But now, always in solitude profound, 
I sit and wait beneath my awful doom, 

Till God's light shall break on me like a sound. 



At the Gate of Dreams 261 



THE DEEPER WISDOM 

THE little winds are shivering 
Across the fresh young grass. 
And wandering breaths of morning bring 

Cool earth-scents as they pass ; 
And from the close I hear them sing, 
My little lad and lass. 

For vernal ardors in their veins 

Are rioting to-day; 
The light feet of the April rains 

Dance round them where they play, 
And swelling buds peep out again 

With frolic hints of May. 

And life is quickening in the sod 

And flashing in the rills, 
And where the feet of morn have trod 

A new strange wonder thrills, 
As down green slopes the signs of God 

Are set along the hills. 

And still my little girl and boy 

Are glad, yet know not why; 
Enough for them the moment's joy, 

The smiling field and sky; 
Wiser than we whom doubts annoy, 

Who hear the old, sad cry. 



262 The Harvest Home 

CRCESUS 

{B. C. 546) 

"r\ SOLON ! Solon ! wist ye of this hour, 
\J When midst the splendors that thine eyes did see, 

Undazzled by my gilded vanity, 
Thou yet didst say how fleet is human power? 
Lo ! from this funeral pyre each flashing tower, 

Each sapphire dome, each gate of ivory, 

Makes all my court a hateful thing to me, 
While here in death's grim shadow now I cower." 
So Croesus cried when fiery death was nigh. 

Remembering Solon's words of long ago; 
Then the great Persian king, who paused hard by, 

Heard the sore wailing of his fallen foe, 
And said : "Unbind him thence, he shall not die • 

Behold, one day I too shall be brought low !" 



THE ANGEL OF NIGHT 

WITH dusky pinions spread, from out the land 
Of twilight glides the angel of the night, 
And earthward softly plumes her silent flight, 
While gathering darkness from her wings is fanned 
Across the cloud-world, musically and bland. 

Around her flow her garments, sprent with .stars. 
As far away, toward the sunset bars. 
She takes her noiseless flight, and from her hand 



At the Gate of Dreams 263 



Scatters the balm of sleep on all below. 

From off her wings she winnows silver dew 
On slumbering flowers, whose aromas go 

Far in ^olian wanderings, breaking through 
Melodious silence in faint ebb and flow, 

Till fair Aurora peeps from eastern blue. 



GRAPES OF ESCHOL 

WONDERING they came; they had strange tales 
to tell 

Of purple hills and valleys half divine, 

Of amber plains which did like morning shine, 
And cool, clear springs which ever did upwell. 
Wistful they came ; and 'twixt them, like a bell, 

Swung downward the dark grapes, the goodly sign 

Of plenty in a land of oil and wine — 
The goal of rest to way-worn Israel : 
So I, a spy from realms where Summer sings 

'Mid billowy fields with radiant blossoms starred, 
Bring these the promisers of rarer things 

That wait the coming of the chosen bard — 
The shining soul who seeks life's mystic springs, 

And counts no knowledge vain, no journeys hard. 



J64 The Harvest Home 



NATURE'S CHILD 

SHE grew in beauty like a flower ; 
Her spirit, sweet as morning air, 
Caught sunshine from each aureate hour, 
Prospered by nature's fostering care. 

Some magic touch of woodland grace, 

Some hint of leafy mysteries, 
Had left its impress on her face, 

Its memory in her shadowy eyes. 

A haunting sense of things akin ; 

Of mossy banks and bosky dells, 
Of gnats that in slant sunrays spin, 

Of rillets chiming crystal bells ; 

Of rosy mists that wrap the morn. 

Of shimmering waves and burnished wings. 

Of dew upon the tasseled corn, 

Of rushes where the gossamer clings— 

All these were broidered o'er with light; 

She wreathed with bloom each common day 
Until, elusive as a sprite. 

On truant feet she tripped away. 

For nature breathed her darling's name 
And called her far; yet, we can see 

Her presence, like a lambent flame. 

Transfused through all fair things that be. 



At the Gate of Dreams 265 



THE SHELL 

THE world is but a hollow breathing shell 
By some chance wave cast on these shores of 
time, 

Still keeping in its ever-haunting chime 
The tameless voice of chaos' ancient spell. 
At whiles in its dark concave thunders swell. 

Waking the echoes of creation's prime, 

And solemn memories of that day sublime 
When through void gulfs of space light did upwell. 
Lo, evermore within the heavy ear 

Of sleeping, sodden, crass mortality 
It sobs its ceaseless warning, year by year, 

That o'er it once again shall heave night's sea; 
And whoso hearkens, hushed and tense, may hear 

The awful whispers of eternity. 



THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 

IN silence and in darkness, hour by hour. 
Unseen beneath the winter's ermine mask, 
To bring again the swelling bud and flower, 
Nature has wrought at her unending task. 

No grass -blade groping towards the light above, 
No rootlet feeling for the vernal rains, 

Shall miss her secret ministry of love, 
Fed bv the subtle ichor of her veins. 



2()G The Harvest Home 



Ah, can it be, when at her quickening breath 
The world's vast pulses wake, and thrill, and leap, 

Our loved ones, in the viewless halls of death, 
Alone shall lie sealed in unbroken sleep ? 

Nay, let us trust the soul's divine desire: 
Beyond our fluttering hopes, our faltering lore, 

God's power shall lift us like celestial fire, 
And mounting life shall triumph evermore. 



THE BELATED PIPER 

I KNOW that mine is but a bubbling pipe, 
Blown in some lonely valley where the trees, 

And flowers, and grass, and vagrant birds and bees, 
Alone the music hear; long since was ripe 
The time for piping; now swart fingers wipe 

The sweat from labor's brow, and weary knees 

Faint in the market-place ; yea, none seek ease 
By streams where still some simple antitype 
Of happy Pan trims him a slender reed 

With nimble hands, and softly, sweetly winds 
A tremulous melody. Yet every weed, 

All common wayside herbs, and careless vines, 
leach the deep secret of our human need — 

The calm man ever seeks but never finds. 



REED VOICES 



'Mid the dusk reeds that fledge the twilight streams, 
Nature's wild troubadours, the breezes, make 

Such sweet strange songs as echo through our dreams. 
And haunt our baffled memories when zee ivake. 



Reed Voices 269 



MY KINDRED 



WHERE in forests deep and still 
Slants by mossy rims a rill — 
Where the fronded ferns are stirred 
By the swift, low-winging bird — 
Where amid the cloistered trees 
Dart the honey-seeking bees — 
There I know my kindred be. 
There they ever beckon me. 

I am kin to sylvan things : 

Where the vine-wrought roofing swings 

O'er dusk coverts leafy-green, 

And shy creatures frisk between 

Dewy sward and swaying limb; 

There from chambers cool and dim 

Many a pair of twinkling eyes 

Meet my own without surprise, 

And my kindred welcome me 

To their woodland revelry. 

I am kin to every flower 
Shedding perfume hour by hour. 
Kin am I to grass and weeds, 
And the drowsy-whispering reeds ; 
To the streams that part and meet, 
To the wind-blown fields of wheat, 
To the tressed ranks of corn, 
To the midnight and the morn. 



2 jo The Harvest Home 



Me the pleasant south-wind knows; 
And the breath that shrewdly blows 
Over many a frozen firth 
Of the rude and ice-girt north, 
Deftly as the hands of Time, 
On my temples sifts its rime. 

I have glimpsed a smiling face 
Peering forth from many a place 
Where thick vines and saplings grow 
And where tell-tale banks of snow, 
Piled in hollows soft and deep, 
Prints of lightest footsteps keep, 
I have traced with subtile care 
Trailing garments light as air. 
Bending an attentive ear, 
Through the thickets I can hear 
Sounds of laughter, clear and fine ; 
And by tokens I divine 
Truths unknown to human speech — 
Secrets that my kindred teach! 



Reed Voices 



ELUSION 

A SPIRIT stirs the summer grass, 
And whispers to me as I pass ; 
I catch the gleam of flying feet, 
I smell a perfume warm and sweet. 

A sudden light, a rustling sound, 
Fleet swiftly o'er the dewy ground, 
And fade in yonder copse away, 
Where lurking shadows cheat the day. 

What eye hath seen that dimpled face? 
Who yet hath found the secret place, 
That refuge in the dim, cool shade, 
Where flees and hides the laughing maid ? 

Ah, happy poet who may guess 

The ever-changing loveliness, 

The lightsome grace, the airy wiles 

Wherewith coy nature masks her smiles, 

And, stealing on her unaware, 

Behold her when she is most fair! 



The Harvest Home 



APRIL 



NOW on the slopes her tender feet are pressed; 
Her mistlike garments stream upon the breeze ; 
Her hair is blown across her rosy breast. 

Where fall the shadows of the budding trees. 

The light of hope shines in her dewy eyes ; 

She breathes the promise of the vernal day ; 
And as she fares beneath the dappled skies 

Unconsciously she trolls a little lay. 

She knows where springs the earliest daffodil, 
Where the young crocus lifts its whispering flame; 

And as she slowly climbs from hill to hill, 
A thousand happy voices flute her name. 

The bleak and darkling days are overpast; 

Music outflows from founts long sealed and dumb; 
Soft airs blow sweet where shrieked the icy blast; — 

O wintry heart, thine April, too, is come. 



Reed Voices 273 



IN SUMMER FIELDS 

BENEATH a leafy thatch to lie 
And watch the pageant of the sky, 
The banners of the morning light, 
The kindling splendors of the night; 
To see the lavish summer spread 
Its pomp above one's quiet head; 
To learn the secrets of the ground 
From myriad elfin voices round; 
To lie for happy hours and hours 
'Mid fresh, soft-bedded herbs and flowers, 
And see the insect armies pass 
Along the highways of the grass; 
To spy among the tangled weeds 
The nimble finches gathering seeds, 
Or,, lost in grassy solitudes. 
Some monster of the mimic woods ; 
To lie, and neither waks nor sleep, 
But feel the pleasant coolness creep 
Like waters o'er one's placid face, 
And murmur round his resting-place, — 
What deeper, what diviner bliss 
Could weary mortal ask than this? 



274 T HE Harvest Home 



THE MAGIC TOUCH 

THE eyes which love anoints shall ever see 
That which from other eyes must hidden be; 
The brook that dimples o'er its silver sands, 
The leaf stirred by the wind's invisible hands, 
The braided gnats in their delirious dance, 
The water-weed that poises its green lance, 
The bird that flashes by on slanted wing, 
The tender emerald of the bryony-ring, 
The belted bee with pollen-burdened thighs, 
The sunlit vans of wheeling dragon-flies, 
The lucent wave that lifts its feathery surge, — 
These to the heart whose vision love shall purge 
Make swift revealments of a Presence near 
Unnoted by the grosser eye and ear. 
For love-led feet in astral pathways tread; 
In their own seasons starry dews are shed 
On life's stale dust, and down melodious ways 
Rare blooms and perfumes break through common days. 
Yea, shot through secret bowers, a sudden light 
Falls like a glory on the raptured sight, 
Till clods, and herbs, and meanest things of earth 
Transfigured glow in a celestial birth. 
O wizard, touch our eyes as 'twere with fire, 
Till all this old world's wonder and desire 
Beat up in awful splendor through the sod 
Whereon in silence walk the feet of God. 



Reed Voices 275 



THE ENDLESS RENEWING 

LONG, long ago such mornings broke; 
On jeweled slopes strange fires awoke 
Up from the south warm odors streamed, 
And 'mid green fields far waters gleamed. 
The dogwood through its leafy bars 
Shook out its immemorial stars, 
While from their cool nest-cradling boughs 
Small minstrels piped their lyric vows. 
Soft showers caressed the laughing world; 
The ferns their feathery fronds uncurled; 
The osier poised its slender lance ; 
A thousand wings, with gleam and glance, 
Pulsed onward where down pathways free 
The jocund hours danced gleefully. 
O wistful heart, be glad that yet 
The rainbow dreams, the sweet regret, 
Ghosts of dear memories that have died, 
Fond hopes that passed unsatisfied, 
Old ardors of the vanished prime, 
Breathe upward through the dust of time. 
For life is fresh, and love is new, 
And youth still keeps its vernal dew, 
And greets the season's pomp of green, 
Its aureate mists, its astral sheen, 
With the vague wonder and delight 
Which years can never banish quite, 
While quickens in the kindling blood 
The rapture of the swelling bud. 



276 The Harvest Home 



THE WOOD-THRUSH 

WHAT a spacious realm is thine, 
For that minstrelsy divine ! 
In the dusk far solitudes 
Of the cool untrodden woods — 
Haunt of gnat and sylvan bee — 
Thou dost choose thy privacy. 

Somewhere caught within thy throat 
Is the myriad, liquid note. 
Of the raindrops 'mid the leaves, 
Slipping down from emerald eaves ; 
And the runnel's roundelay, 
Rising, falling, night and day. 

Clear as rings a crystal bell 
Is thine iterant ritournel ; 
Ripening nuts in coverts green, 
Whispers where the flowers lean, 
Voice of water, wind, and tree — 
Music heard of none save thee. 

Thou dost ponder, o'er and o'er. 
All the strange, elusive lore 
Of each shy, wild, furtive thing 
Light of foot or fleet of wing; 
And thy song, remote, withdrawn, 
Greets the evening and the dawn. 



Reed Voices 277 



Would that we thy calm might share- 
We, the sons of toil and care; 
Soothed should be each aching breast, 
Hushed the fever and unrest, 
And from off the shadowed soul 
Doubts forevermore should roll. 

Still our weary footsteps roam ; 
Where thy mate is, there is home; 
And no darkening of the sky 
Bodes for thee disaster nigh; 
Though the tempest o'er thee rides, 
Naught may vex while love abides. 

Thine, O thine the better part ! 
Still unspoiled within thy heart 
Thou dost keep the old sweet song 

Chance nor change shall ever wrong. 

******* 

There ! it pulses once again ; 
Listen ! ah, that wondrous strain ! 



The Harvest Home 



SLEEPYSIDE 

PILED against the turquoise sky 
Pearl-white banks of vapor lie; 
Lazily a fickle breeze 
Creeps along the dappled leas. 
Midway of the sleepy stream. 
Ruminating as they dream, 
Stand the drowsy-lidded kine, 
Shaded by a clambering vine. 
On the gray roofs of the town 
The high summer sun looks down ; 
Grass is growing in the street. 
Where tanned reapers, with bare feet, 
Faring fieldward slowly pass, 
Or some brown, slim-ankled lass, 
Loitering dreamily along, 
Hums a half-forgotten song. 
From the latticed porches come 
Breaths of honeysuckle bloom ; 
Sunflowers doze beside the wall ; 
On the rick the sparrows call. 
Here no sounds of sordid strife 
Fret the peaceful ways of life; 
Steeped in languor are the days. 
As yon slopes are steeped in haze ; 
Heeded less the passing hours 
Than the sunshine on the flowers — 



Reed Voices 279 



Than the bee with dusty thighs 
That across the meadow flies, 
Pouncing like a burly lover 
On a nodding crimson clover. 
Somewhere 'mid the shadows deep 
Time has fallen fast asleep, 
And his idle scythe and glass 
By him lie upon the grass ; 
Thus forever let him bide 
In thy thralls, O Sleepyside. 



THE MIRACLE 

HEARKEN! the ancient cry! 
A call from the heart of the wood; 
'T is heard in the deeps of the conscious sky, 
In the quickening solitude. 

My soul, attune thine ear; 

Thou know'st the signal well ; 
The birth of Spring's first flower is near — 

The world-old miracle. 



280 The Harvest Home 



DRIFTING 

ATHWART the silver dusk the fireflies float; 
The crescent moon, above the shadowy hill, 
Sails slowly downward like a little boat; 

The winds are sleeping, and the night is still, 
Save when amid the reeds along the shore 
A ripple washes, and is heard no more. 

The summer stars peer down thro' heaven's gray veil, 
And here and there, across the misty fen, 

A strange light wanders, now afar and pale. 
Now near and slowly waxing bright again. 

Silent past many a fairy bower we glide, 
Past rocking lily-pads and dipping boughs, 

By wreathing vines that sweep the dimpling tide, 
By smodth-mown meadows where the mild-eyed cows 

Lie 'mid the dews and take the night's sweet breath. 
A subtle perfume, from the distant woods. 

Steals lightly by and swiftly vanisheth 
Into the night's unfooted solitudes. 

Nature has charms the unanointed eye 
May never see ; by many a common stream 

She sets her signs, and where her lovers lie 
In secret places, there are lights that gleam 
As beautiful and mvsterions as a dream. 



Reed Voices 281 



AN OATEN PIPE 

THE Summer's surf against my feet 
In leagues of foam-white daisies beat ; 
Along the bank-side, where I lay, 
Poured down the golden tides of day; 
A vine above me wove its screen 
Of leafy shadows cool and green, 
While, faintly as a fairy bell, 
Upon the murmurous silence fell 
The babbling of a slender stream 
In the sweet trouble of its dream. 
Then as the poppied noon did steep 
The breathing world in fumes of sleep, 
I shaped with fingers drowsed and slow 
An oaten pipe whereon to blow, 
And in the chequered light and shade 
Its wild, untutored notes essayed; 
But in the larger music round 
My slender pipings all were drowned. 



NATURE 

SHE clothes herself in meek simplicity, 
And o'er her lover spreads her hands to bless, 
When lo ! her garments, rustling to her knee. 
Flash on his eyes her dazzling loveliness. 



282 The Harvest Home 



THE DEAD PINE 

DARK against the brooding sky 
Leans its scarred trunk silently; 
Round each gaunt and twisted bough 
No sweet breezes linger now. 
Like a sin-tormented ghost 
Prisoned on some twilight coast — 
Withered palms and hopeless face 
Pleading for a moment's grace — 
So along the dim sky-line 
Stands yon weird, misshapen pine. 
Once the wood-bird's timid note 
From its spicy glooms did float, 
And the squirrel's shrill challenge rang, 
As from limb to limb he sprang, 
Ere along their russet bed 
Its last scanty spikes were shed. 
Now no voice of beast or bird 
From its naked boughs is heard, 
Save when, on its topmost height, 
Fierce freebooter crows alight, 
And with brawlings wild and rude 
Wake the echoes of the wood. 
Gone, forever gone, the years. 
When amid its towering peers 
It did hear the tempest rave, 
As the storm-rack o'er it drave. 



Reed Voices 2S3 



Now it recks not though the meek 
Violet brush with velvet cheek 
Its shagged bark, to kiss the spring 
Through its tough roots murmuring. 
Ne'er for it shall fall again 
Cooling dew nor freshening rain, 
Nor the healing light that shone 
In the summers dead and gone. 



THE HIDDEN JOY 

THE wan November sun is westering; 
The pale, gaunt year puts all her glory by ; 

Beneath her pallid feet her vestures lie. 
And white and faint she stands a-shivering : 
And yet the world's great heart is quickening 

Beneath dead leaves and grass grown sere and dry, 

And through the silence of the sombre sky 
Throb swift pulsations of a forefelt spring. 
So all our sorrow hath a core of bliss ; 

Some prophecy of pleasure tempers pain 
In every heart, and through our bitterness 

Strikes a fierce joy that not a pang is vain; 
Life hath no hidden good that life shall miss, 

For with all loss is mixed some god-like gain. 



The Harvest Home 



UNDISCOVERED 

IF we had but eyes to see 
What beside our path may be — 
The frail lives that, to and fro. 
O'er the mossy highways go — 
Elfin things that, unafraid, 
Scramble up a grassy blade. 
Or in grottoes dim and small 
Echoes wake with freakish call — 
From new founts of happiness 
We should quaff the streams that bless. 

Joy the springing flowers feel 
When the rain-clouds o'er them wheel- 
How the curving rushes thrill 
At the kisses of the rill — 
How the leaves, when winds blow free, 
Clap their tiny hands in glee — 
All the gladness, pure and fine, 
At our feet we should divine. 
If we had but eyes to see 
What beside our path may be. 

If we had but ears to hear 
The small voices, sweet and clear, 
That ne'er cease by day or night, 
The rude sounds which now affright 



Reed Voices 285 



Would be hushed, while o'er the soul 
Silver symphonies would roll 
Like a tide, and sweep away 
Noises of the mart's wild fray. 
No more should our sleep be vexed, 
Nor our waking be perplexed; 
But an endless music beat 
From the dust beneath our feet, 
If we had but ears to hear 
Nature's voices, sweet and clear. 

Hed we hearts to understand, 
We should learn that, nigh at hand, 
Magic springs of bliss upwell, 
And from many a secret cell 
Nature yields to earnest quest 
Sovran balm for man's unrest. 
Love that never seems to be, 
Peace that ever seems to flee, 
Joy that masks a sunny face. 
Have their hidden dwelling-place, 
Not beyond the vaulted skies, 
But beneath our purblind eyes, 
And beside our very hand, 
Had we hearts to understand. 



286 The Harvest Home 



HEALING NATURE 

"T IFT up your eyes and look upon the fields" 
JL/ That laugh with flowers and, where the yellow 
grain 
Stands thickest, billow like the billowing sea. 
There slides a stream that, like a silver blade, 
Curves westward, and beyond the mossy bridge 
An azure pool lies smiling at the sky, 
Its bosom set with lilies as with stars. 
The heavy mantle of the cool dark wood 
Is scarcely ruffled by the idle breeze, 
That touches here and there a swaying leaf, 
And then is gone. The songs of myriad birds 
Patter among the leaves, and slant like rain 
Athwart the sparkling air. In piney dells, 
A thousand censers, swung by unseen hands, 
Send up their fragrance till the senses thrill, 
And the blood leaps with every happy breath. 
Come forth, O hopeless toiler ! leave thy tasks ; 
Leave thy heartsickness, and the weary weight 
Of thy dull cares; lo ! get thee to the fields, 
Where thou mayest lay thy forehead on the breast 
Of healing nature. Thou are tired; come 
And rest; draw into all thy veins the health, 
The sweetness and the fullness of the life 
That throbs in earth, in sky, in sea and air. 



Reed Voices 2S7 



THE VEERY 



HARK! that liquid dewy note 
From the privacies remote 
Of moist coverts, leafly-dim, 
Where the veery lifts his hymn 
To the morning; hour by hour, 
Fragrant balm from many a flower 
Lades those viewless argosies 
Bearing down each spicy breeze. 
Kingcups, violets, windflowers frail 
Watch o'erhead the white clouds sail, 
While the early bee's bassoon 
Swells and sinks like some sweet tune. 
Now afar, again more near, 
Hyacinthine, crystal-clear, 
O'er and o'er that one refrain — 
Voice of love's own tender pain — 
Hope's undying roundelay — 
Echoes in the ear of day. 



ON THE CLIFF 

A BIRD on yonder crag which fronts the deep 
Trilled a full hour his wild love-lay to me; 
So Sappho sang upon the wind-swept steep, 
Ere plunging hopeless in the gulfing sea. 



288 The Harvest Home 



MIDWINTER 



SOFTLY the snow's light ermine wraps the fields. 
Slow, flake by flake, descending from the clouds 
That drape the leaden heavens ; stark and cold, 
The silent trees stand on the wintry slope. 
The wind is laid, and all the world is still, 
Save the low sound wherewith the naked bough 
Lets slip its feathery burden to the earth; 
The cock has ceased his challenge, and the dog, 
Dozing beside the hearth, forgets to bay 
The distant traveller; all is frost and hush. 
Yet where the north's frore breath can never come, 
In chambers dark beneath the frozen clods, 
Small voices lift their elfin whisperings 
From nested seeds and rootlets, breathing all 
Of blooms, and vernal airs, and waking songs, 
When Spring shall set her lyric feet once more 
With life and beauty on the morning hills : 
Listen, mv soul, these voices are for thee,- 



THE MISER YEAR 

THE miser year, amid his songless bowers, 
With senile eyes gloats o'er his gathered gold, 
And laughs and mumbles while, in rippling showers, 
It sifts between his fingers thin and old. 



Reed Voices 



NESTING TIME AGAIN 

SWALLOW, swallow, from the distant lands 
Northward winging o'er the silver sands, 
Past the wine-dark stream and misty plain — 
Swallow, nesting time has come again. 

As the pulsing sap mounts to the bud, 
Sudden longings stir within your blood; 
Sounds of singing rill and vernal rain — 
Swallow, nesting time has come again. 

Happy visions, yours, of moss-grown eaves, 
Sunlight sifting through the nickering leaves, 
Watchful, busy mate and birdlings twain — 
Swallow, nesting time has come again. 

CONTENT 

A BREATH of flowers, a flawless sky, 
And tipsy bees carousing nigh; 
A vine o'erhead that weaves its screen 
Of flickering shadows cool and green; 
A muffled, silver-tinkling bell 
Where nibbling sheep climb yonder dell; 
A sinuous stream that laughs and bubbles 
And sings amid its foamy troubles; 
A hush of hours that softly steep 
The conscious world in fumes of sleep — 
Ah, these no anxious thoughts shall give; 
To-day it is enough to live. 



2yo The Harvest Home 



THE REAWAKENING 

A VOICE upon the hillside wakes, 
A rill begins to laugh and leap. 
And nature starts, and stirs, and breaks 
The silence of her long, white sleep. 

The soft, warm coverlet of snow 
That veils her lovely limbs and face 

She lightly flings aside, and so 
Arises in her vast, nude grace. 

But now her bright new robe of green 
Is o'er her gleaming shoulders thrown, 

And many a stream of silver sheen 
Is girt about her like a zone. 

Oh, she is fair; her cheeks and brow 
Are softly bathed in April rain ; 

And, standing under yon green bough, 
She hears the robin flute again. 

/ 
Old memories kindle in her breast; 

Her eyes look forth through floating tears- 
Tears not of sorrow; she is blessed; 
God gives her youth through all the years. 

God gives her youth with each new spring; 

Her winter's long, mysterious swound 
Is but her life's refashioning — 

A healing of time's every wound. 



Reed Voices 291 



O soul, lift up thy voice and sing; 

The seasons utter forth this truth — 
Thy winter past, behold ! one spring 

Thou'lt wake, clothed in immortal youth. 



WHEN BLUEBIRDS FIRST APPEAR 

WHEN bluebirds first appear, 
And flute o'er wasting snows 
Their greeting sweet and clear; 
When the first pale violet blows 
In the hollow under the hill, 
And the Earth's faint pulses stir and thrill, 
As Spring's light footsteps steal 
O'er meadows brown and stark; 
When o'er the budding orchards reel 
The throbbing stars through balmy dark, 
And the forest's humid gloom 
Is dense with rare perfume, — 
Then once again from its deep, 
Long, troubled, and sorrowful sleep 
My heart shall awake to mark 
How even the barrows of death 
Grow green at the Spring's warm breath. 



202 The Harvest Home 



SONG OF THE SPRING 

BLUE lies the light upon the hills ; 
Keen scents of earth steal freshly up, 
Mixed with the winy air that fills 
The valley like a mighty cup. 

Warm winds, blown hither from yon wold. 
Come laden with the breath of flowers, 

And songs of brooks are blithely trolled 
Through all the slumb'rous, sunlit hours. 

From far afield, yet sweet and clear 
Above the mingled sounds of Spring, 

Through all the mellow day I hear 
The swinging sower lightly sing. 

Like flakes of newly fallen snow, 
The blossoms flutter from the trees ; 

And like far music, faint and low, 
I hear the murmur of the bees. 

Ah, soul ! how good it is to be ! 

The pulses of the very sod 
Awake, and stir mysteriously 

Beneath the quickening breath of God. 

There is no death ; the years shall bring 
Thee nearer to some viewless goal, 

Where bloom perennial flowers of Spring, 
And singing streams forever roll. 



Reed Voices 293 



DANDELIONS 

WHAT unseen power hath wrought this wondrous 
change ? 
It was but yestermorn the dull brown mold 
Grew by some sudden magic, new and strange, 
Bright with these starry flakes of living gold. 

Ah, can it be that olden tale is true? 

Hath Phrygian Midas journeyed thro' the land, 
And while men slumbered and the southwind blew, 

Let fall these golden discs from out his hand? 



EVENSONG 

OVER the old, tired world the soothing night 
Sinks softly down ; still faintly glows the west 
The eager birds now cease their joyous flight, 

And seek the loving shelter of the nest. 
O heart, fret not ; pause in the fading light ; 
This evening-time thou too shalt have thy rest. 

Fieldward the cattle thrid their dewy way; 

The evening star hangs in the quiet sky; 
Athwart the leas the shadows long and gray 

Stretch out like arms, and prone and darkling lie 
Upon the unresting brooks; gone is the day; 

O restless heart, thine evening, too, draws nigh! 



294 The Harvest Home 



A RAINY DAY 

BLESSED, blessed rainy day! 
Here will I sit and while away 
The sober morn in this warm nook, 
And browse through some delightful book. 

While steadily above my roof 
The wind drives by in clashing proof, 
And shakes from off the dripping leaves 
Their chilly burdens round the eaves, 

I'll sit and hear the rhythmic beat. 
Hour after hour like tiny feet. 
Of rain-drops slanting from a sky 
O'er which low clouds troop ceaslessly. 

My happy calm none shall invade ; 
Light Fancy now, all unafraid. 
Shall weave her charm ; her airy spell 
Through these still hours shall prosper well. 

While o'er their drenched and shifting beds. 
The flowers droop their heavy heads, 
And while behind their rain-plashed screen 
The birds their ruffled plumage preen, 

I sit in pleasant revery 

Where books, like friends, smile down on me 
And round me floats a perfume rare 
From fairy censers swung in air. 



Reed Voices 295 



O blessed, blessed rainy day ! 

In yon dim west die not away ; 

My dreamful spirit fain would keep 

Such simple pleasures, pure and deep. 



AUGUST 

SHE sits within the shadow of the vine, 
A swart young gypsy queen with turbaned head 
About her knees her dusky hands are spread ; 
Her somber eyes with inward ardors shine. 
The woodbine leaves already glow like wine; 

The parched blooms droop above their dusty bed; 
And still she sits, as one among the dead, 
And o'er the mown fields stares and makes no sign. 
An alien from a torrid clime, she knows 

Full well her empery is brief, and soon 
Where the shrunk stream amid its pebbles flows, 

And the cicada's challenge stabs the noon, 
Winter by night shall pile its drifting snows, 
And the frore North chant loud his icy rune. 



296 The Harvest Home 



THE BELATED DAFFODILS 

WAKE, sister daffodilly, wake! 
The buds their barren slumbers break 
The trailing willow, by the stream, 
Roused from its long and wintry dream. 
Shakes all its silken tassels free. 
The robin's jocund minstrelsy, 
And early bluebird's velvet note, 
About the fields and orchards float. 
No more the hurtling March winds pass. 
But low, sweet sounds of growing grass, 
Of rustling herb and tender flower, 
Rise from the green turf hour by hour. 
Wake, sister daffodilly, lo, 
From out the south mild breezes blow ; 
Along the wood-paths, warm and wet. 
Springs up the frail wood-violet. 
Already from its soft brown bed 
The crocus lifts its drowsy head, 
And stares with slow and wondering eyes 
Into the changeful April skies. 
Wake, sister, here 'tis damp and dark ; 
Leap from thy chilly couch, and hark 
How peal the waxen lily-bells. 
To call us from our gloomy cells. 
Too long hath slumber sealed our eyes; 
Our mates have risen : let us rise 



Reed Voices 297 



And take from hence our upward flight ; 

Let us go seek the pleasant light. 

The cattle browse upon the hill, 

The blossoms nod beside the rill, 

The bee darts by on vagrant wing, 

The birds from dewy copses sing, 

And in fresh closes, to and fro. 

The whistling plowmen blithely go. 

Dear sister, from these chambers cold, 

Beneath the damp and gloomy mold, 

Where winter-tranced we long have lain, 

We'll flee to seek the light again. 

Dost see the day, dear, as we rise? 

Hark to the insects' mellow cries ! 

Ah me, how sweet the south's warm breath ! 

How fair is life ! how dark is death ! 

Lo, all the world is bourgeoning, 

And this, dear sister, this is Spring! 



THE FIRST SNOWFALL 

ONCE more the silent snowfall; heaven assoils 
Of shame alike bare field and naked tree ; 
Thus o'er our banal lusts and sordid broils 
Falls the white mantle of God's Chanty. 



298 The Harvest Home 



A SONG OF THE HILLS 

FRONTING the wide-browed east they stand; 
Slowly beneath God's mighty hand 
They rose and took their shape ; the dews 
Distill upon them ; heavenly blues. 
And rainbow purples, from which lean the stars, 
Lightly o'erarch them; down their rugged scars 
Pour balms of dark and light. 
How fair the sight 
Of cliff and glen, of oak and pine, 
And ever-upward clambering vine, 
And long green sweep of brambly slope ! 
Where slanting sunbeams shyly grope 
Through leafy screens, along its bed 
Of moss, 'twixt gnarled roots, with stealthy tread 
The cold stream seeks the vale. 
Here, while the heavens yet are pale, 
On her wide altars morning burns 
Her mystic incense : through the ferns, 
And flowers, and creepers, and thick boughs, 
Old Nature's truest devotees 

Send up their matin vows 
And vesper harmonies. 
Day after day. 
From every dew-plashed spray, 
From blooms where linger long the plundering bees, 
From frail herbs crushed by careless feet. 
And buds scarce breathed on by the breeze, 
Exhale rare odors, fine and fleet. 
Here, where the night and the morn first meet. 



Reed Voices 299 



Are myriad melodies, wonderful, sweet. 

Hark! how the heart of the dawn doth beat! 

Whisperings, stirrings, rustling of wings, 

Sounds like swift fingers swept o'er a harp's strings — 

Sounds shot with silence, with silence that groweth, 

That round through the aisles and the dim arches 

floweth 
Like a stream lapping low, laughing, loud 'mid the 
grasses ; 

Till suddenly passes 
A spirit that hushes one instant the breath 
Of the earth and the sky to the stillness of death — 
One instant a pause in the pulse of the dawn, — 
One instant the joy of awaking withdrawn. 

O moment supreme 

'Twixt waking and dream, 

'Twixt longing intense 

And throbbing suspense ! 
But listen ! the liquid, soft note of a bird 
Wakes the world from its spell, then another is heard, 
Till lo, with a crash, from the sky and ground 
Bursteth a tempest of musical sound! 

O fear, thou hast fled! 

Thou, silence, art dead ! 
Thou, joy, hast awaked from the thralldom of sleep, 
And the dark tides of sorrow are turned back to the 
deep. 

Lay thine ear to the earth, 
And harken what mirth 
Through fairy-land riots, because of the birth 



300 The Harvest Home 



Each moment of flowers and fair green things, 
And the mystic unsealing of magical springs 

In the heart of the hills! 

What rapture thrills 
Through the roots and stems of the braided weeds. 
And quivers and shivers amid the reeds 

That watch by the streams, 

Because from their dreams 
In the womb of the dark have been wakened to light 
The souls of new plants to people the height. 

Here trade shall not come. 

And the voice shall be dumb 
Of hard-hearted Thrift; yea, even the stroke 
Of the ax that is laid to the root of the oak 
Shall sound muffled and far : 

For barter and gain 

Belong to the plain, 

And there they shall bide. 

Whatever betide. 
Here the wheels cannot jar 
Of commerce that thunders and shrieks on its way, 
But the tremulous shadows fantastically play 
Through bickering leaves, and small black eyes 
Twinkle from glooms where the dewberry lies, 
And the garrulous squirrel, and the finch, and the jay 
Gossip the fleet-footed summer away. 
And here from the pearled fields of morn, 
On trie viewless wings of the winds are borne 
Perfumes sweeter than nard or myrrh. 
pungent fragrance of pine and fir! 



•Reed Voices 301 



What delicate scents from the indolent east, 

That are shed from the Sultan, as he sits at his feast, 

Can vie with the balsam's resinous breath 

To quench in the blood the fierce fever of death? 

Hark ! while the dusk's pale curtain falls, 
Across the dim, gray upland calls 
The twilight-loving whip-poor-will. 
O night, brood softiy o'er the hill! 
Fair night, your vast star-spaces fill 
With tender light that shall not wane 
Till morn shall wake the world again. 
Thus in the shadow of God's hand, 
While o'er the sky the dark is fanned, 
Upon the hill-top let me stand. 
How near is heaven ! how near each star ! 
The noisy world how far ! how far ! 
O soul, for flight thy wings expand; 
Look yonder to the promised land; 
From such a height, with fond desire, 
Ere from the earth, in clouds of fire, 
The ancient seer was rapt away, 
He looked and saw the starry dome 
And kindled glories of God's home, 
Nor wished to stay. 

O height! O height! thrice blessed height! 

Upon thee calmly rest the night, 

And sweetly break the morning's light 



302 The Harvest Home 



Above thee ; 
He who would flee the world's vain strift 
And find a larger, nobler life, 

Must love thee. 



NOW SLEEPS THE BREATHING EARTH 

NOW sleeps the breathing earth 
Above, like an inverted cup, 
Smoke-stained and dim, upsoars the night-filled sky. 
Swift to their birth 
Come myriad ephenerae that die 
Ere morn hath clambered up 
The eastern crags to set her gonfalon 
Against the clouds. 
Behold, anon, 

The mists wrap their cold shrouds 
About the willows where the sobbing stream 
Forgets its jocund day-song. Let me dream, 
O let me dream, now that the dark is come; 
Now that the stridulous voices all are dumb 
Which maddened sunlit hours; 

Yea, let me dream; the night-moths haunt the flowers, 
While nesting birds stir on the sheltering bough, 
And one large star, poised o'er the hill's dusk brow. 
Glows like a lamp. 
A fragrant damp 

Falls on the world; O fevered breast, 
Drink thou the balm of rest. 



Reed Voices 3^3 



AD VESPERAM 

"l;n wunderschdnen Monat Mai 
Ah alle Knospen sprangoi." 

WHERE has my morning with its music fled, 
When sweet sounds swept like rain along the 
hills, 
When happy blooms with lucent dews were fed, 
And tremulous laughter tinkled from the rills? 

Then rainbowed vistas ravished Hope's young eye; 

Green upland slopes were white with nibbling flocks ; 
O'er springing harvests bent the peaceful sky, 

And nunlike violets smile by mossy rocks. 

Then ran like wine the quick blood through my veins. 
As spring's rich ichor shoots through root and bough ; 

My glad soul echoed back the thrush's strain, 
And mocked the plowman whistling at his plow. 

O morning time of youth! O voice of spring! 

Vanished long since, — ah, long since fallen dumb! 
Now sad and weary lips forget to sing; 

The old sweet madness never more will come. 

For the day droops and shadows are grown long; 

In ruined gardens lies the summer's gold; 
From the brown pasture dies the cricket's song, 

And on wet banks the light lies gray and cold. 



304 The Harvest Home 



Round the shorn meadows sifts the early rime; 

The hills are dark, and low clouds trail above 
Yet O my heart, sing in this evening-time, 

Mid summer's tarnished glory dream of love. 



DAWN 

THE dews are sifted o'er the lawn, 
Pale vapors fold the shadowy height, 
And like a ghost the pallid dawn 
Steals down the aisles of night. 

Heaven's myriad torches quench their fires, 
And yonder, o'er the earth's faint rim, 

Where in the mist the moon expires, 
The morning star grows dim. 

The soft sleep-angel's dusky plumes 

Glimmer along the silent way 
She takes to lands of dreamful glooms, 

Far from the garish day. 

The hill-tops flush — the night is done; 

A sudden bird-note, sweet and strong, 
Rings out, till lo ! beneath the sun 

The world is drenched with song. 



Reed Voices 305 



DUSK 



THE silver dew lies on the grass, 
Above the hills the pale moon climbs, 
And where my eager footsteps pass 
The crickets cease their chimes. 

I breathe a fine, faint scent of musk, 
And, while the shadows slowly fall, 

A little beck sobs through the dusk, 
And flitting night-birds call. 

There flickering through the fragrant dark, 
In many a changeful, dizzy maze, 

I see the firefly's sudden spark 
Shine down the misty ways. 

And this is night. O, may my eyes, 
When freed from all life's wildering spells, 

Behold the heavenly dew that lies 
On meads of asphodels. 



306 The Harvest Home 



A SONG OF THE WOOD 

OJOY of the life of the wood! 
O joy of the swift young blood 

That throbs in the bough and the bole ! 
Mount into my shrunken veins. 
And brim them as brooks by rains. 

Or as rivers that seaward roll. 
Let me feel again what the Spring 
To the heart of the wood may bring, 
How the April sun and rain 
Are shed on no leaf in vain, 
And in every clod doth beat 
An influence deep and sweet. 
Let me stand in the vernal air, 
And the bliss of green things share; 
Into the soft dark mold. 
That wraps them, fold on fold, 
Let the roots of my being go. 
Now will I rise and grow, 
As rapturously, hour by hour, 
Grow grass and bud and flower. 
No touch of the Spring shall I miss ; 
Me too shall the south-wind kiss, 
Till my dwindled, pale desires 
Shall kindle with leaping fires. 



Reed Voices 307 



Here will I lie ; 
Above me the domed, diaphanous sky, 

Glimpsed through dark-braided boughs. 
O delicate-pure are the palmer-like vows 
Breathed through the glooms 
Where cloistered blooms 
Are screened from the fervid day. 
Thus will I drift away, 
On tides of fine perfumes, 
Slow — ah, slow — 
As the smooth waves flow, 
Out to the dim and mysterious deep, 
To the fathomless ocean of sleep. 
When Summer's riotous pulses beat, 
O wood, thou dost quaff the torrid heat, 
As men the sun-cored wine. 
Upward each spray of thine 
Is thrust to catch the sun, as flowers 
Hold fragrant cups to catch the showers. 
Blithe are thy sounds that spread 
Through arches dark o'erhead, 
Or 'mid grasses cool and long 
Break into endless song. 
Here in a sylvan dream 
Gurgles a slender stream; 
Listen — ah, listen — how it sings, 
Winding downward from its mossy springs, 
Tinkling like a crystal bell, 
As its mimic billows swell, 
O'er slant pebbles, through lush weeds. 



30S The Harvest Home 



Or 'mid dense and glistening bredes 
Of vines and wood-plants trailing low, 
Now where stiller waters flow, 
It scarce murmurs under breath 
What the bland wind whispereth. 
Here furred creatures come to drink; 
Brown birds haunt beside its brink; 
And where fairy bowers hide, 
Frolic shadows wheel and glide 
O'er the silver-ridged sands. 
There thick ranks of osier wands. 
Thrilled by Summer's warm desires. 
Shoot their lithe and graceful spires 
O'er the tide that purls between ; 
All day long they yearn and lean, 
Swaying in the shade or sun, 
Till the halcyon hours are done. 

Woodland noises, 

Meadow voices, 
Fife of bee and flute of bird, 

Wafted hither, 

Echoed thither, 
Rarer music ne'er was heard. 
When the filmy moonbeams sift 
Through the leaves that toss and lift, 
Wandering lovers sometimes stray 
By this hushed, sequestered way, 
While the small voice of the rill 
Mingles with their dreaming still. 



Reed Voices 309 



Vanished all ! 
For now the days begin to fade and fall : 
The birds are winging southward; on the plain 
The pallid light lies cold; as one in pain 
The stream moans by, and sad the pewee's call. 
There where the dark wood skirts the meadow-lands, 
Joyless, with tarnished raiment, stands 
One wind-swept golden-rod. 
Upon the cumbered sod 
The dank leaves lie, 
And fitfully 
Through naked trees wail Autumn gusts. 

The lichen rusts 
On each stark bole, and day by day. 
O'er love's forsaken way, 
Drear in its solitude, 
The gray clouds droop and brood. 
Yet when the snow shall choke the heaped dells, 
And from the keen north swells 
An icy breath, 
With threat of famine and frore death, 
Then like a gracious prophecy 
Of prosperous seasons yet to be, 
Through storm-winds loud and rude 
Shall breathe the benediction of the wood. 



310 The Harvest Home 



THE BLESSED ISLES 
(Thousand Islands) 

HERE beneath the violet skies 
Dream the isles of Paradise; 
Where the sapphire waters run. 
Dimpling in the summer sun, 
Countless white-winged shallops dance 
O'er the river's broad expanse. 
In this lotus-realm of peace 
Life's sad mysteries find surcease; 
Here the heart grows calm again. 
After tempest, tears and pain. 
And the soul's o'erclouded cope 
Gleams with rainbow smiles of hope. 
Let the frenzied world pass by, 
Cheat and wrangle, fight and lie ; 
Here across life's turbid tide 
Tranquil influences glide 
From the drowsy hush that broods 
O'er these charmed solitudes. 
Xot Avilion's meadowed calm 
Could afford such sovran balm 
For the eye distempered, blind, 
And the self-sick, jaundiced mind, 
As these billowy isles where play 
Healing breezes day by day. 



Reed Voices 



Love the shy forgets to wear 
His accustomed fillet here, 
And his eyes with rapture smile 
O'er each leaf-embowered isle; 
He this haunt his own has made, 
And within the dappled shade, 
When is stilled the oar's light beat, 
You may hear his accents sweet, 
As again the story old 
Into happy ears is told. 
O my spirit, long unblest, 
Fold thy wings, here take thy rest. 



MORNING BY ONTARIO 

THROUGH night's barred gates a venturous light 
doth break; 

The shadows vanish, and where far peaks rise 

A splendor burns along the opulent skies ; 
The birds are stirring, and the winds awake. 
Now burst the meadows into many a flake 

Of shifting fire, and still the old surprise 

Of morning kindles where a glory lies 
Upon the wrinkled bosom of the lake. 
As yon proud vessel parts with shining prow 

A backward-curling waste of molten gold, 
Down treading the smooth waves, so outward now 

A spirit-craft fares 'mid the strange lights rolled 
From other suns, while on my Love's dead brow 

The new day prints its kisses sweet and cold. 



312 The Harvest Home 



THE NEW DAY 

HOW beautiful the summer morn, 
With billowy leagues of wheat and corn! 
The shining woods and fields rejoice; 
Each twinkling stream lifts up its voice 
To join the chorus of the sky; 
O beautiful unspeakably! 
In the dry cicada's notes, 
In the thistle-down that floats 
Aimless on the shimmering air. 
In the perfume sweet and rare 
Of the sun-steeped, dark-leafed trees, 
Dwell the year's deep prophecies. 
Hark! the clangor of the mills 
Echoes from the drowsy hills. 
The foam-white clouds, the smiling dale, 
The dimpling waves, the laughing flowers. 
The low, faint droning of the bees, 
Mixed with sweet twitterings from the leas, 
Conspire to charm the magic hours. 
Under a spell the spirit lies ; 
Sundered is sorrow's misty veil ; 
To-day life is a glad surprise, 
A tranquil rapture, fine and frail. 
Wherein to joy-anointed eyes 
The old earth seems a Paradise. 



Reed Voices 313 



UNFORGOTTEN DAYS 

SWEET do-nothing days! I lie 
Beneath a cloud-filmed summer sky, 
And while the hammock idly swings, 
I hear the oriole as he sings, 
Perched somewhere 'mid the glossy leaves 
That yonder maple round him weaves. 
I know that soon the thin blue sleet 
Against the frosty panes will beat, 
And all the knotted limbs will clash 
As charging storm-winds through them crash ; 
Yet I shall sit where flames upleap 
From ruddy coals, nor wake nor sleep, 
But dream of long, sunshiny hours, 
When unreaped fields were flushed with flowers. 
When every copse and tangled close 
W T as sweet with balm of mint and rose, 
And some full-throated song's outrush 
Swift shattered all the noontide hush. 
So still within my heart shall be 
The summer's light and melody, 
The shy, soft winds that ever shift, 
And drowsy clouds that slowly drift, 
Though at my door grim Winter stand, 
And loudly knock with mailed hand. 



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A SONG OF MAY 

IN the orchard close I see thee, 
And along thy luminous way 
The shadows arise and flee thee, 
O delicate, blossoming May. 

The dews on thy sandals glisten, 
As, hard by yon shaggy bole, 

Thou pausest a moment to listen 
To the song of an oriole. 

The pink apple-blossoms above thee 

Tremble to touch thy hair, 
And the sweet south winds that love thee 

Are faint with the passion they bear. 

O fair is thy face, and tender 
The light of thy laughing eyes, 

From the deeps of whose azure splendor 
Wells ever a glad surprise ; 

For the ways of thy life are sunny, 

Xor dimmed by thy crystalline showers, 

And thy footsteps, 'mid perfume and honey, 
Are jewelled with radiant flowers. 

Not so was the troublous morning 
That dawned on thee first, O sweet, 

For thy birth-star rose lurid with warning, 
And thy birth-song was singing of sleet. 



Reed Voices 3*5 



But terrors of storm could not fright thee, 
Thou child of the tearful Spring, 

Nor frost in its cruelty blight thee, 
For thou heardest the orioles sing. 

And now the drear days of thy sadness 

Are vanished as phantoms afar, 
While forth in thy beauty and gladness 

Hope beckons thee, chaste as a star. 

And thy feet press the odorous grasses 
That spring on the uplands and leas, 

And before thee the wind, as it passes, 

Scatters downward the blooms from the trees. 

THE FRUITFUL YEAR 

SHE stands amid her rustling stooks ; 
On drooping leaves and berried vines, 
Where late birds sing in sunny nooks, 
She sets her mystic signs. 

Her ample bosom heaves and falls 

With the calm breath of sweet content ; 

She hears the reapers' cheery calls 
With sounds of laughter blent. 

Before her gaze fair visions rise : 

Garners with generous fruitage stored, 

And hearthfire lights in children's eyes 
Grouped round a smiling board. 



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SEED-TIME 

THE fields lie swathed in misty blue; 
Dim vapors crown the wooded height 
From every trembling spray the dew 

Shoots back the morning's quivering light. 
In hollows where the tender fern 
Uncurls beside the glimmering burn, 
The cool gray shadows linger yet, 
To kiss the pale young violet. 
Hark ! singing through the orchard close. 

And whistling o'er the furrowed plain, 
The lusty sower blithely goes 

To drop the golden grain. 

Clear morning sounds are in the air ; 

The birds their jocund matins swell; 
Each stream makes music fine and rare ; 

Each fountain rings its crystal bell. 
Sweet from the blooming apple-trees, 
Come elfin quirings of the bees, 
And from far uplands, faintly borne, 
Float mellow greetings to the morn. 
O tuneful world! each wind that blows 

Brings from the field a glad refrain, 
Where, singing still, the sower goes 

And drops his golden grain. 



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HARVEST 



THE hills are steeped in slumberous haze ; 
The wind is breathing soft and low; 
On tranquil slopes the cattle graze ; 

Through twinkling light the waters flow. 
About the meadows, smoothly shorn, 
The cricket winds his cheery horn, 
And o'er the calm expanse of sky 
The filmy clouds drift lazily. 
Across the smiling valley — hark! 

How steals the echo, sweet and long, 
Of those who sing from morn till dark 

The happy harvest song. 

The mossy barns, with heaped floors, 

Amid the peaceful landscape lie; 
The doves wheel through the open doors ; 

About the eaves the swallows fly. 
Now slowly rolls the creaking wain 
Up from the yellow fields of grain, 
Where swart-armed reapers gayly sing, 
And sturdy sickles glance and ring. 
O liberal earth ! O fruitful days ! 

Each wind that stirs the rustling leaves 
Bears round the world the grateful praise 

Of those who bind the sheaves. 



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A DAY OF DREAMS 

THE sunshine lies athwart yon emerald bosk, 
Where blithesome runnels dance from out the 
dusk 
Of greenery spired like an eastern mosque, 

And o'er the fields the winds steal, faint with musk. 

The sun, midway upon his tireless march, 
Eyes languidly the green earth's sleepy face, 

But the fond sky, with arms in dreamy arch, 
Stoops down to take her in its soft embrace. 

Lo ! lying yonder in an azure swoon, 

Where earth and sky in misty outlines merge, 

I see the narrow, curved, white summer moon. 
Pale and uncertain, o'er yon western verge. 

Dim is the circuit of the far-off hills, 

From whose light crests the thin, blue forests fail 
In distance, and beyond the sunlight fills 

The white-winged clouds that o'er the heavens sail. 

The yearning willow bends each leafy spray, 

And softly dips it in the sliding wave, 
And on yon pebbly marge, across the way, 

Two little wrens their soft brown pinions lave. 



Reed Voices 319 



A slumberous silence steeps the summer noon, 
Save the cicada's piping, shrill and long, 

And now and then a hautboy's drowsy tune, 
In fitful snatches of an old love-song. 

O day of dreams, thou are not wholly lost; 

When winter winds shall wax through sleety rain, 
And all the flowers lie dead beneath the frost, 

In memory I shall live thee o'er again. 



ONE WITH NATURE 

WIZARD Nature, make me one with thee ; 
One with the rolling earth, the leafy trees, 

One with the winds that breathe soft melodies, 
One with the vital sunlight, large and free. 
I would the springing grass were part of me, 

The brook-flags waving in the errant breeze, 

The daisies burning star-like on the leas, 
The cool gray forest's gloom and mystery. 
I would my heart should pulsate with the beat 

Of ocean's mighty throbbing; I would go 
Where'er thine influence should lead my feet, 

As roving streams still seaward ever flow. 
Dear Nature, warm me with thy generous heat, 

And into thine own being let me grow. 



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MORNING 

THE mist-born shapes of dawn about them wrap 
Their great gray cloaks and silently depart. 
The dew-drops, one by one, slip off the spray, 
As from the fullness of his mighty heart 
The sun doth kiss earth's glittering tears away, 
And, smiling, fling bright jewels in her lap. 
Across the fields the chore-boy's merry call 
Comes ringing, and the milkmaid's early song, 
Mixed with the lowing of the distant kine. 
The morning-glories on the mouldered wall 
Are open, bathing in the golden shine, 
And turning from light Zephyr's amorous arms, . 
Bare all their bosoms to the roving bee. 
The meadow brooks bound cheerily along 
And kiss the timid flowers as they flee, 
Leaving them weeping at a trust betrayed. 
Pale, sad-eyed Phosphor in the east hath died; 
Dimmed by sweet morning's fuller, fairer charms, 
Hath drooped and faded like a love-sick maid. 
Along the river-shallows herons wade, 
And on the wave the water-lilies ride, 
.And by the shore the silent plover steals, 
Or thither comes a thirsty wren to drink. 
Ah me, how glad the morn ! The breath of day 
Brings to the wakened world its healing balm, 
And softly breathes the fevered sleep away. 



Reed Voices 3- 1 



From some wan sufferer's dim and hollow eyes. 
Up from the village mellow murmurs rise, 
And from yon hillside, where the white flocks stray, 
A single distant bell, now faint, now clear, 
Blends its sweet cadence with the morning calm. 
Life bubbles up and overflows its brink; 
In every heart hope sings, and love is dear 
Where'er o'er earth the morning angel flies. 



NIGHTFALL 

DESCEND, O dewy twilight, o'er the hills, 
With kisses soft and cool; the whip-poor-wills, 
Deep-buried in the bosom of the vale, 
Wait for thy coming, and the young moon, pale 
And dimly crescent, o'er the vapory height 
Climbs slowly up, wreathed in her own faint light. 
The voices of the day are quenched in sleep; 
Along the dusky slopes the peaceful sheep 
Feed 'mid the shadows, and anon is heard, 
Waking to sweet complaint some drowsy bird, 
The mellow tinkling of the leader's bell. 
Upon the gloom now softly sink and swell 
The cricket's slender vespers, and afar, 
As if to mock eve's solitary star, 
Or echo back the watch-dog's distant howl, 
From yon lone wood the hooting of the owl 
Deepens the hush and loneliness of night. 
Upon the lawn, the roses, red and white, 



3JJ The Harvest Home 



Sift their light petals o'er the beaded grass, 

And on the poppied breezes, as they pass. 

Breathe out the musky secrets of their hearts. 

Now on his quest the wheeling bat departs 

With beating wings, and countless beetles boom 

Headlong across the fields. The purple gloom 

Thickens upon the landscape ; in the skies 

The tardy stars come out, and murmurs rise 

From streams that through the curtained darkness flow. 

Fretting among their pebbles as they go. 

In the still orchards, and the meadows damp, 

The fitful firefly kindles his small lamp, 

While o'er the marish comes the ceaseless sound 

Of piping voices. From the dew-drenched ground 

A subtle incense rises, and the air 

Is laden with a perfume keen and rare. 

Low in the west the embers of the day 

Die darkly down; a mist hangs, chill and gray. 

Above the silent river's sleepy tide, 

Whereon the folded water-lilies ride, 

And the tall flags, stirred by the curling waves, 

Whisper together. Where the current laves 

The trailing branches of yon rustling tree, 

Floats a thin sound of airy revelry, 

And in a dizzy maze the singing gnats 

Dance slowly off across the reedy flats. 

How beautiful is the dark! the gradual calm 

Steals into all the blood, and, like a balm 

The crystal drops of night wide o'er the land 



Reed Voices 323 



Are scattered, as by some invisible hand. 
Welcome, O dark! Tired heart, thou too art blest 
After the weary day, night brings thee rest; 
After the wildering tumult, strife, and heat, 
The coolness comes, and silence soft and sweet. 



A HINT OF WINTER 

NOW in the wood the partridge drums ; 
Across the stubbly ground 
The wary hunter lightly comes 
And scarcely wakes a sound. 

The forests flame along the hill, 

And from the rustling trees 
The leaves drift down and choke the rill, 

Or frolic in the breeze. 

The sumacs kindle by the streams ; 

Beneath the chilly noon 
One joyless blossom stands and dreams 

Of days that passed too soon. 

A whisper stirs the naked hedge, 

And o'er the faded fields, 
Around the pool, amid the sedge, 

A hint of winter steals. 



324 The Harvest Home 



THE WANING YEAR 

BY this we know the year is growing old : 
The mists droop from the hills in many a fold; 
In mournful monotone the crickets sing; 
The fitful winds vague premonitions bring. 
Across the tideless azure of the skies 
Less lightly sail the cloudy argosies. 
The golden-rods, beside the plaintive stream. 
All day within the pallid sunshine dream 
Of brighter hours, when through the drowsy noon 
The whetted scythe rang out its merry tune. 
The hoarse cicala's strident note is heard 
Amid the stubble, and a lonely bird, 
Behind its fluttering screen of russet leaves, 
Lifts up its solitary voice and grieves. 
The year is not the same; the waning days 
Are filled with sad desires, and o'er the ways 
Where once love's happy feet were fondly set, 
There broods a strange and shadowy regret. 
Old memories waken ; from the restless heart 
Rise nameless longings, and the swift tears start 
Unbidden for the joys that now lie dead 
As yonder rose whose bloom long since was shed. 



Reed Voices 325 



AN AUTUMN MORNING 
I 

NOW o'er yon hill the glad Aurora comes, 
Blushing from rosy cheeks to finger tips, 

And o'er the meadow, through the mist she slips 
Into the forest where the partridge drums. 
The humble bee above the holly hums ; 

The willow in the river softly dips; 

Across the field the merry milkmaid trips, 
And on her shining pail she gently thrums 

An old love-ditty, wondering the while 

If Robin Gray will meet her at the stile. 
The lowing cattle o'er the sweet, late grass, 

With rattling hoofs press onward to the rill, 
Brushing the glittering dewdrops as they pass, 

Till at the bubbling stream they drink their fill. 



II 



Scarcely a bird-song in the sunlit air. 
Save now and then a mournful chickadee, 
Weeping its heart away in melody, 

Cries out the burden that it cannot bear. 

The forest trees upon the upland wear 
A gayer livery, and the eye can see, 
As higher up the sun climbs lazily, 

The stooks of corn stacked on the hillside fair. 



326 The Harvest Home 



The creaking wain rolls slowly toward the field, 
Where tawny pumpkins doze beneath the sun; 
Beyond, the patient cattle, one by one, 

Stand waiting still their treasured sweets to yield, 
Looking with wondering eyes ; the maid the while 
Kisses her Robin bv the meadow stile. 



SYRINX 

LEAVE me to wither here by this dark pool, 
Where the winds sigh amid the shuddering reeds, 

And slimy things creep through the water-weeds, 
And snakes glide out from coverts dim and cool. 
Leave me, O Pan ; thou hast been made the fool 

Of thy hot love; go where thy white flock feeds, 

And pipe thy ditties in the dewy meads. 
And watch the silly sheep that own thy rule. 
Get hence; I am become a loveless thing; 

No charms of mine shall ever tempt thee more ; 
No more in valleys green and echoing 

Shalt thou surprise and fright me, as of yore ; 
Go, clash thy hoofs, and make the woodlands ring. 

But let me wither here on this dark shore. 



Reed Voices 3 2 7 



NATURE'S RENEWING 

BENEATH the drifted snow she keeps 
Her children safe from harm; 
Each folded germ securely sleeps 
In silence sweet and warm. 

And when the laughing wind shall break 

The bonds of Winter's night, 
Then from their sleep the flowers shall wake 

To seek the pleasant light. 

The Spring-time ever comes. O soul ! 

Though loosed the silver cord, 
And shattered is the golden bowl, 

And on the trampled sward 

The pitcher at the fountain lies 

Beside the broken wheel, 
O'er thee shall bend the kindly skies, 

And balmy breaths unseal 

Death's frosty silence with a kiss 

Light as an angel's wing, 
And thou shalt wake 'mid tides of bliss 

To hear God's minstrels sing. 



$2$, The Harvest Home 



LEARNED AT LAST 

''TMS written that the earth is Thine, O Lord, 

X The fulness thereof also; not a gnat, 
Whose little life spans but an hour, and craves 
The bounty of Thy sunshine, is denied. 
In unregarded places, where no eye 
Save Thine beholds, and where no voice is heard, 
Save delicate, small whispers of the air 
O'er dew-pearled flowers, or far off falling streams 
Waking elusive echoes in the vale — 
Still there the largess of Thy hand pours forth 
To satisfy and gladden all that breathes. 
Then who are these whose armies shake the world? 
Who clutch the fateful lightnings in their hands, 
To hurl them forth with ruin and red death 
O'er desolated homes — the war lords, plumed 
And helmeted, whose thunderous cannons lift 
Their smoky banners high. Is, then, the earth 
Their heritage, that they should seek to wrest 
From poverty its scanty rood of ground, 
Where patient toil still delves, or meekly waits 
When Thou dost hoar-frost give like ashes ? Lo ! 
Out of the tears and blood, the holocaust 
Of crushed and bleeding squadrons, trampled crowns. 
Wrecked empires and proud captains rolled in dust, 
The long, hard lesson shall be learned at last — 
"He hath put down the mighty from their seat, 
And hath exalted thern of low degree." 



Reed Voices 329 



THE SOLE REQUEST 

OGOD, I ask no other boon but this : 
To live, and let the quiet days go by, 
Feeling upon mine eyes the morning's kiss, 
Or breathing peace beneath an evening sky, 
While through the hours between, e'en love's least task 
Finds sweet fulfillment; nothing more I ask. 

The strenuous service of the great and wise, 
And the slow recompense the world bestows, 
I seek not; only let me see the skies 
Flushed with the early sunlight, and the rose 
Pearled with the dew, and let me from the ground 
Catch with quick ear each fine, elusive sound. 

For me it is enough to see the grass, 
And feel beneath my feet the springing sod; 
To breathe the vital air as seasons pass, 
And gain fleet glimpses of the skirts of God, 
There on the hills where first the mornings lie, 
Or on yon waters where the sunsets die, 



330 The Harvest Home 



HER NURSLING 

TO thy great heart, O Nature, take thy child; 
Close fold him in thy large, serene embrace 

Hide from the garish light his tired face; 
Safe shelter him from storm-winds loud and wild. 
Around him let thy hoary rocks be piled, 

And sentinel trees guard well the quiet place 

Where o'er him sunny shadows interlace, 
And gentle violets breathe their perfume mild. 
There let the birds at morn and evening sing; 

There let the small stream chime its silver bells ; 
There let the wind its viewless censers swing, 

And monk-like crickets chant in grassy cells. 
O Nature, thy cool mantle o'er him fling. 

And weave into his sleep thy sweetest spells. 



AT THE SIGN OF THE HEART 



Here lies a heart, once love's ozvn shrine, whence rolled 
The smoke and flame of itnconsumed desire; 

The flames are perished now, the altar cold, 
Yet ev'n its ashes hide a smouldering fire. 



Ax the Sign of the Heart 333 



THE WHISPERED WORD 

OUNFORGOTTEN day, return! 
Bring back thine opal skies, 
And far-sown dews that wink and burn 
Where morning's magic lies 
On grassy slopes and meadows pied 
With slender bluets starry-eyed. 

For there, by waters slipping down 

Past coverts cool and green, 
'Mid birchen shoots and thickets brown, 
With sunny isles between, 

Sweeter than whitethroat's strain, I heard 
The music of a whispered word. 

And suddenly the world was bright 

With bloom, and pulsing wings, 
All blue and gold, flashed through the light, 
While tender growing things, 

From moist dim nook and leafy tent, 
The fresh wild breath of spring outsent. 

Still in the old loved haunt I dream; 

Hushed are the ritournels 
Of mating birds, and the choked stream 
Muffles its silver bells; 

Yet all my soul to song is stirred 
By memory of that whispered word. 



334 ^ ilr ' Harvest Home 



THE MASQUER ADER 

ABOVE her sunny head the netted boughs 
Wove delicate arabesques; unfolding buds, 
With faint elusive hints of vapory green, 
Festooned the aisles ; from every mossy bank 
Shy violets peeped ; and where pale ferns uncurled 
Their silvery fronds amid the russet leaves, 
A slender rill rang all its crystal bells, 
Deliriously free. Returning birds 

Twittered from swinging branches where she moved, 
Her young lips tremulous with a little song 
Fledged from her heart 

Then suddenly she saw 
Before her one who tottered as he walked, 
Oft pausing, while he leaned upon his staff, 
To rest his feeble limbs. His wrinkled hands 
With palsy shook, and from his wasted form 
Loosely the garments hung in many a fold. 
With pitying steps she hastened to his side; 
"Poor man," she pleaded, "you are so infirm, 
And I so young and strong, pray lean on me." 
Whereat he turned and clasped her where she stood; 
And she, all breathless with surprise and fright, 
Lifting a moment her blanched face to his, 
Beheld beneath a thatch of snow-white hair 
Youth's shining locks, while on her own eyes beamed, 
From out that frosty counterfeit of age, 
The radiant, warm and mirth-brimmed eyes of love. 



At the Sign of the Heart 335 



LOVE'S SORCERY 

WHERESOE'ER thou goest, Sweet, 
Peace shall go before thy feet; 
Forth shall gush the song of bird, 
And the blossoms, faintly stirred, 
Shall breathe incense, fine and rare, 
On the love-enchanted air. 
Round thy pathway, for thy sake, 
From the ground a light shall break, 
And thy footsteps shall be set 
With the mint and violet. 
Greener hills shall slope away 
Where the mild-eyed cattle stray ; 
Fairer skies shall arch thee o'er 
Than the world hath known before. 
Not a fear shall shake thy heart; 
Spent shall be Grief's venomed dart 
Ere it reach thee; thou shalt go 
Where life's crystal fountains flow. 
For a wizard wondrous wise, 
Round thee weaves his sorceries, 
And the earth shall changed be 
By his sovereign alchemy. 
Thou to nature shalt be dear; 
Subtlest music thou shalt hear 
In the sounds of gurgling springs, 
And the faery chime that rings 



330 The Harvest Home 



Where the grasses, cool and wet, 
Screen the glimmering rivulet. 
Thou shalt hear, o'er pleasant leas, 
Slumberous murmurings of the bees, 
And the grasshopper's shrill tune, 
Through the long bright afternoon. 
Night shall bring thee healing dews ; 
And the viewless hand that strews 
Precious balm of Paradise 
On the flowers' closed eyes. 
Shall with silken touches woo 
Thee Sleep's rosy portals through. 

Howsoe'er the seasons fleet, 
Kindly stars shall o'er thee meet; 
Love shall minister to thee, 
And thy life shall charmed be. 



VAE VICTIS 

LONG sleeps Delilah; but at Gaza still 
The shorn deluded Samsons sweat and grind 
Amid the dust and clangor of the mill, 
Treading their sordid round, forever blind. 



At the Sign of the Heart 357 



GARDEN GHOSTS 

TWO moon-white moths are fluttering; 
Athwart the haunted gloom; 
I watch them waver, wing to wing, 
Past many a spectral bloom. 

No footfall wakes these mossy walks ; 

The mist's thin streamers trail, 
From twisted shrubs and writhen stalks, 

Round all the coppice pale. 

Low winds amid the leaves complain ; 

The firefly's wizard spark 
Makes mimic lightning when yon twain 

Go wandering down the dark. 

And still they flutter side by side, 

As night's chill currents flow, 
To that lone tryst-place where they died 

Long centuries ago. 



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NOCTURNE 

THE silver shallop of the moon 
Is havened in the west; 
The river trolls a ceaseless tune 
About her place of rest 

Warm sleep hath sealed her gentle eyes, 
And round her, vestal white, 

Sweet dreams and winged fantasies 
Are hovering all the night. 

A wandering air, soft as a kiss, 
And burdened with perfume, 

Steals faint with its own stress of bliss 
Into her virgin room. 

Be this my wish : bright spirits keep 

The current of her dreams, 
And ever o'er her lilied sleep 

The good stars shed their beams. 



At the Sign of the Heart 339 



THE BRIDAL MORNING 

ODEWY splendor of the morn, 
Fall lightly on yon vine-wreathed pane ; 
Thou honey-gatherer, wind thy horn 
To tell her day has come again. 

The shadows of the night are fled; 

The mists are lifted from the lawn; 
From peak to peak a shaft is sped 

Straight from the kindling heart of dawn. 

O morning, on her sealed eyes 
Print the sweet magic of thy kiss; 

Breathe softly on her where she lies, 
And wake her to the nearing bliss. 



A WOMAN 

HER eyes are deeps of trustfulness; she waits 
To open wide to love her heart's white gates, 
And, like Alcestis, happy she to give 
Her life, if so Admetus still may live. 



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HER VIOLIN 

I WOULD I were her violin, 
To rest beneath her dimpled chin, 
To softly kiss her swan-white throat, 
And breathe my love through every note. 
When o'er my strings her fingers fair 
Should lightly wander here and there, 
The while her flashing bow did press 
My bosom with its swift caress. 
Then would I waken into song 
The rapture that had slumbered long. 
Mine ear against her swelling breast 
Should hearken to its sweet unrest, 
And — happy spy! — then should I know 
How, deep beneath that drifted snow, . 
A blissful tumult in her heart 
Made all her fluttering pulses start. 
Then that high calm, that maiden grace, 
That meekly proud and peerless face, 
That aureole of sun-bright hair, 
That brow such as the seraphs wear, — 
No longer these should baffle quite 
The anxious lover's dazzled sight. 
Ah, would I were her violin, 
That thus her secret I might win. 



At the Sign of the Heart 341 



TO HER WATCH 

OH happy watch, to lie in her bosom so, 
Counting the hours in that delicious nest, 
Hearing her gentle pulses ebb and flow, 

Rocked by the motions of her dove-white breast — 
Were I thy jewelled self a little space, 
I scarce should heed how Time, the winged churl, 
flies ; 
And when above me bent her radiant face, 
I'd smile into the heaven of her eyes. 



ABSENT 

SHE comes not, though I tarry long 
The house is not the same; 
And every echoing chamber speaks 
Her dear familiar name. 

She is not here, but many a mute 

And fond remembrancer, 
Like subtle odors, pure and fine, 

Breathe memories of her. 



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MINE ADVERSARY 

THOU mine adversary art, 
Thou, love, that with ruthless dart 
Didst so sorely wound my breast. 
Lo ! thou earnest as a guest, 
And as such I welcomed thee 
To my hospitality. 
My poor roof I bade thee share, 
Bade thee taste my frugal fare — 
Amber honey, wine and bread; 
And when thou hadst supped, I led 
Thee to my warm ingle-nook, 
Cheering thee with song and book. 
Thou my welcome didst betray ; 
Thou my kindness didst repay. 
Caitiff-like with swift despite; 
For, in silence of the night, 
When the darkness was most deep, 
And the world was hushed in sleep, 
Thou didst rise to do me wrong; 
Thou didst bind me fast and strong. 
And while thus I helpless lay, 
Thou didst steal my peace away, 
Thou didst rob me of my joy, 
Thou didst make my heart thy toy — 
As a target for thy skill, 
Thou didst pierce it at thy will ; 



At the Sign of the Heart 343 



And whene'er I prayed to thee. 
Thou didst mock my misery. 
Now I have escaped thy hands; 
Sundered are thy silken bands; 
Thou shalt never vex me more — 
Lo ! I spurn thee from my door. 
Pass ! henceforth I'll none of thee 
Let thy ways be far from me; 
For howe'er the years may go, 
Thou shalt be my dearest foe. 



SUNDERED 

I SHALL not touch her face, her hands again; 
I shall not mingle her warm breath with mine 

I shall not drink again the nectared wine 
Of her swift kisses, for dear Love is slain. 
Yea, Love lies cold and dead; but pallid Pain, 

Upon whose haggard cheeks the salt tears shine, 

Hath set upon our brows her blood-red sign 
Of hopeless anguish, like the mark of Cain. 
LTpon us Time hath wrought his change, for lo ! 

Not now we meet and pass as heretofore, 
Each knowing that which none save us could know- 

How full of love our hearts were to the core; 
But now across life's wide waste fields we go 

Our separate ways, to meet again no more. 



344 The Harvest Home 



ESTRANGED 

THEY met, and all the world was fair; 
Fair, too, were they as any pair 
Of birds of paradise; 
They met, and never meant to part, 
But oh ! time chills the warmest heart, 
And dims the brightest eyes. 

They met, and love betwixt them born, 
From morn to dark, from dark to morn. 

Walked with them through the land ; 
O, blithely sped the singing hours, 
Till, lured to pluck the star-eyed flowers, 

Each loosed the other's hand. 

Then love took flight with sudden fright, 
And now they wander through the night, 

Blind with their helpless tears ; 
They grope amid the thorns and sand, 
But cannot touch each other's hand 

Through all the lonely years. 



LOVE'S PARADOX 

SHE would not stir a single jetty lash 
To hear me praised; but when my life 
blamed 
Her parian cheeks were kindled like a flash. 
And from her heart a sudden love upflamed. 



At the Sign of the Heart 345 

THE RECONCILIATION 
{An Idyl of St. Martin's Summer) 

PHYLLIS and I fell out one day, 
Fell out as lovers do, 
Yet why it was I could not say, 

Nor do I think she knew. 
Slow dragged the days down dreary ways ; 

Birds hushed their happy cries ; 
Till autumn touched to sudden blaze 

The world with frosty dyes, 
And in a glory, brief and bright, 

Saint Martin's summer came, 
Fringing the hills with purple light 

And the shorn fields with flame. 
Then once again we met; her face, 

Her downcast, clouded eye, 
Turned from me as with quickened pace 

In silence she passed by. 
Upon the path her swift feet spurned 

A tiny glove of gray 
Fell with a pleading palm upturned — 

I saw it where it lay. 
With wildly fluttering heart I spoke ; 

Her hurrying footsteps stayed, 
While on her lips a smile awoke, 

As sunshine scatters shade. 
"Come, Phyllis," said I, "let us cease, 

An age of joy we've missed"; 



346 The Harvest Home 



Said she, ''Well, I have wanted peace 
This long time," and we kissed. 

Now oft, as in my wife's dear eyes 
I see fond whimsies blent, 

That dropped glove stirs a vague surmise- 
Was it an accident? 



FLOWN 

AGAIN in dreams thou comest to my side; 
Again I hear thy voice, again I trace 

The faultless features of thy sunny face — 
Sweet eyes, pure brow, and dimpled cheeks where hide 
The frolic sunbeams ; once again the wide 

Fair fields smile round us, and thy maiden grace 

Makes sudden light in every dusky place 
Where all day long the dewy shadows bide. 
But thou hast flown — ah ! whither hast thou flown ? 

What mortal soul thy dwelling-place may guess? 
With, empty arms, and hopes like dead leaves blown, 

Wearily up time's flinty steep I press; 
Yet, O my love, love's rugged way is known, 

And I shall find thee crowned with blessedness. 



At the Sign of the Heart 347 



HEAVEN NEAR 

HOW very near my heaven lies ! 
Who seeks may find the place 
Within the azure of her eyes, 
The radiance of her face. 

And of my perfect happiness, 

How near the charmed land ! 
'Tis there where goes her whispering dress, 

Where glimmers her white hand. 



PARTING 

LOVE, are our lives so long that we may part 
For months and years, nor feel a pang of grief? 
Or is the measure of the days so brief 
That, as they go, they leave no bitter smart 
To trace its dreary record on the heart? 
O, unto thee is not the fallen leaf, 
The withered landscape, and the rustling sheaf, 
Presageful of a time when we must start 
Upon a longer journey, nevermore 
To come again and clasp each other's hand, 
And look with love into each other's eyes? 
Lo ! here we may not tarry long, for o'er 
Our sight a vapor gathers, and the land 

Lies wrapped in gloom descending from the skies. 



348 The Harvest Home 



THE FIRST TRYST 

WITHIN the whispering shadows of the night. 
Where the gray dunes show wan against the sky, 
And the long roller curls its yellow foam 
Above half-strangled sands, he stands at gaze. 
His heart is sick with doubt, and painfully 
His ear is bent to catch the hushed sweet noise 
Of light feet hastening towards him; sudden fears 
Clutch at his throat, and fancy, chilled and weak, 
Plagues him with nameless pangs ; there in the dark 
One big star burns like an unwinking eye, 
Mocking his vigil ; somewhere, far away, 
A dog bays maddeningly, and all his soul 
Hangs on the torture of that instant when 
From the dim tower the bell's first note shall boom 
Its brazen signal ; hollow winds arise, 
Mingled of flame and frost ; hope flickers low. 
As falls the breathless moment; till at last 
The long-awaited stroke which, ere it dies, 
Shudders into a little sound of joy. 
Then outstretched hands that glimmer through the 

dusk, 
Pale robes that flutter near, a happy cry 
Quenched in a tremulous sob— and all is well. 



At the Sign of the Heart 349 



THE PRESENT 

WHAT matter we have suffered, dear, and borne 
A thousand pangs, when we are lying low? 
What matter that we drank the lees of scorn, 

And wept beneath our griefs, as we weep now, 
When from our dust shall spring the matted thorn? 

What matter, dear, that you and I have kept 

Hearts sweet and tender through ungracious years, 

When in the sepulcher we shall have slept 
A thousand moons, and dried are Memory's tears, 

And Love sings by the tomb where once he wept? 

I know when we are gone the flowers will bloom, 
And in their seasons leaves will go and come, 

And nesting birds will sing above our tomb ; 

But still, what matter? We shall both be dumb, 

And locked in silence and eternal gloom. 

What matter, dear, though spring and summer wane, 
And winter come with chilling sleet and snow, 

Or on our graves the flowers weep in rain, 
Or on our graves the flowers forget to blow, 

What matter, dear? — we cannot then feel pain. 

Should others love as you and I have loved, 
What matter ? — we shall mingle hearts in dust : 



350 The Harvest Home 



Should others prove, as you and I have proved, 

The faith of men, nor forfeit Heaven's high trust, 
What matter? — they shall move as we have moved. 

Come, come away ! O, now we will not mourn, 
For that which is not ; and the past is past ; 

Though faded joys shall nevermore return, 
Neither shall faded griefs, the first or last, 

And time's true heir is of the present born. 

O love, what may be shall not cloud the heart, 
Nor steal joy from the present, which is ours; 
Now, now we'll clasp, and laugh at death, nor part, 
But make these, which we have, most golden hours, 

And when the Dread Voice calls, together start. 



NEW LIFE, NEW LOVE 

AH, what awaits us whem the glimmering sight 
Is slowly quenched within the gathering night; 
When on the hills the purple shadows fall, 
And lingering darkness hides and covers all — 
New life, new love? 

Could new life sweeter than the old life be? 
Hath love for us some rarer ecstacy? 
Ah ! while the day shines and it grows not late, 
Say not there dwell beyond the night's dark gate 
New life, new love. 



At the Sign of the Heart 351 



THE OLD STORY 

THROUGH tangled grass the rill sobbed by, 
We saw eve's red sun glow; 
The peaceful herds were browsing nigh, 
The village slept below. 

A trailing ivy, like a wreath, 

Drooped down upon her hair, 
And she who, blushing, stood beneath 

Knew she was very fair. 

The pomp of the declining day, 

The beauty of the place, 
Around us like a halo lay, 

And shone upon her face. 

We lingered there with many a sigh, 

And many a whispered vow ; 
I saw the tear steal from her eye, 

I saw her clouded brow. 

Afar we heard the minster bell; 

Slowly the day went out; 
Then, as the twilight round us fell, 

I told her all my doubt. 

Like sunshine shot through April skies, 
Her smile flashed through her tears, 

And while I dried her beauteous eyes, 
She kissed away my fears. 



352 The Harvest Home 



O fickle tears ! O faithless vows ! 

O fond, delusive trust! 
Love weeping goes with hidden brows, 

And wings low in the dust. 



FOR THINE OWN SAKE 

WITHIN thy voice I hear another voice, 
Not sweeter than thine "own ; and thy dear eyes 
Are tender as the shadows that rejoice 

The hushed, glad world when evening dusks the 
skies. 

The touch of thy white hand awakes in me 
The ancient thrill; and that warm clasp of thine 

Is sweeter far than the chill memory 
Of ringers ne'er responsive unto mine. 

For thine own sake, and not another's, I 
Find music in thy presence; and I feel, 

When to thy gentle spirit I draw nigh, 
A sense of infinite beauty o'er me steal. 

And on the hunger of my heart there fall 
Soft comfortings; and, whatsoe'er be past, 

When to thy soul my own fond soul shall call, 
Thou too shalt speak and I shall hold thee fast. 



N 



At the Sign of the Heart 353 



EXPECTANCY 

The Dawn 

OW moves the night before me, and the mist 
Slips from the valley, by the south-wind kissed. 



The Meadow 
Soon will her light feet o'er my bosom pass, 
And daisies star her foot-prints in the grass. 

The Brook 
And I shall see her smile, as her sweet face 
Lingers above me for a little space. 

The Bird 
My blithest notes I'll flute into her ear, 
And her dear spirit shall lean out to hear. 

The Rose 
My petals she shall touch with her soft lips, 
While maiden joy thrills to her finger tips. 

The Lover 
O Love, I wait and watch the new day break: 
The dews are drying, and the winds awake; 
Thou art my morning; let thy sovran light 
Strike on my soul and scatter all my night. 



354 The Harvest Home 



THE CAPTIVE 

WHITHER fare you. Dimple-cheek, 
Sad and slow? 
Why that pale and pensive face 

As you go? 
In your downcast, wistful eyes 
Half-concealed a shadow lies ; — 
Clouds are in the gusty skies. 
Trailing low. 

Leaves are fallen, flowers are dead ; 

Now the day 
Clean forgets the smiles it wore 

When 'twas May; 
Why then should your lingering feet 
Pass where frost and flowers meet? 
Not a bird-song ripples, Sweet, 

Down the way. 

Ah ! 'twas here the gin was set ; 

Here the dart 
Pierced thee — here the snare was spread 

By love's art. 
Like a bird that cannot sing, 
While it trails a broken wing, — 
Bruised, fluttering, captive thing, — 

Droops your heart. 



At the Sign of the Heart 355 



And it throbs, and will not rest ; 

Throbs in vain ; 
And you come with aching breast, 

Come again 
Where love's honeyed words were said, 
When the sky was blue o'erhead; — 
Ah, the moments that are fled! 

Ah, the pain! 

But. O summer's darling, wait; 

What though now 
Birds are mute, and madcap winds 

Strip each bough? 
Hastes this way the budding year 
When, despite each darkling fear, 
Hope shall place her chrism, Dear, 

On your brow. 



I WOULD MY SONG WERE LIKE A STAR 

I WOULD my song were like a star 
Hung in the purple depths afar, 
To lead her eyes, through gates of even, 
Along the kindling paths of heaven. 

I would my song were like a rose 

From whose sweet heart the perfume flows; 

Then on her bosom it might lie, 

And, breathing fragrant music, die. 



350 The Harvest Home 



CUPID'S ARROWS 

PHEBE, wandering in a wood, 
Chanced to spy Dan Cupid sleeping ; 
Long the curious maiden stood 

Tiptoe through the branches peeping. 
For the youngster's lips she yearned, 

Till, the branches parting slyly, 
She to slake her thirst that burned 

Stooped and kissed the rogue's mouth shyly. 

Now the boy's eyes open wide, 

And upon the maid he gazes, 
Grasps an arrow at his side, 

And his silver bow upraises. 
Swift the maiden turns to flee; 

Swift the arrow follows after, 
Wounding in its flight a tree ; 

Hark! how rings the maid's clear laughter. 

Cupid, with sleep-dazzled eyes, 

Stares a moment through the bushes 
Where the laughing maid still flies, 

Then adown the wood he rushes. 
Now the shaft o'ertakes the quarry, 

Now it cleaves poor Phebe's heart: 
Maidens, ere you wake Love, tarry 

First to filch his every dart. 



At the Sign of the Heart 357 

ROSALIND'S SONG 

(hi the Forest of Arden) 

OLET the sweet winds blow, 
And let the clear sun shine, 
For all the world shall know 
That he is mine. 

It is not shame to see 

The leaf upon the vine; 
Why should it shameful be 

To own him mine? 

The light that loves the flower, 

I take it for a sign ; — 
Love is a maiden's dower, 

And he is mine. 

Sweet wind, true leaf, fair light, 
And joy that shall not tine, 

I know love's sovran might, 
For he is mine. 

A PROPHECY 

NO seer am I, and yet I know full well, 
When o'er my book thine eyes pore, misty-dim, 
To thine own heart this secret thou shalt tell: 
"'This friend loved me, and I — I, too, loved him." 



3$& The Harvest Home 



THE VICTORY 

AS townward mistress Betty goes 
With tossing head and haughty lips, 
And dainty, outward-pointing toes 

That spurn the path o'er which she trips, 
She recks not how yon sleek young blades 

Begin to ogle, smirk and purr, 
Nor yet how all the kerchiefed maids 
Are whispering after her. 

As Betty goes she walks alone. 

Her gathered kirtle in her hand ; 
She curtsies not to any one. 

She sees no smiles, however bland ; 
Her bosom, veiled by silken braids, 

Is sweet as hills that drop with myrrh. 
While still the sly and tittering maids 

Stand gazing after her. 

Ah, Betty goes to meet her fate ! 

Bold Roger lurks by yonder stile : 
She spies him, but alas ! too late ; 

With him avails no scornful wile. 
Now all her helpless pride he raids. 

And traitor longings in her stir, 
While o'er their shoulders men and maids 

Make merrv after her. 



At the Sign of the Heart 359 



SEAWARD 

OLOVE, our brows are toward the open sea; 
Our eyes look onward to the nearing strand 
The salt winds on our cheeks blow fresheningly, 
And strange sea-voices haunt the reedy land. 

I know not where thy footsteps fall, nor yet 
What skies o'erarch thee, but I know full well 

That thy face, like my own, is seaward set, 
Drawn thither by the same resistless spell. 

We shall not fail to stand beside the deep, 
And though out feet may falter as we go, 

Still one unerring course we ever keep 
Toward that long level where the sea-tides flow. 

The evening shades are gathering cool and sweet; 

The moving waste awaits us ; O my bride 
That never wast, set sail ; our hands shall meet 

When we make harbor on the other side. 



360 The Harvest Home 



LOVE IS DEAD 

NOW Love is dead; 
Fold close each filmy van ; 
Twine round his fallen head 
White roses ere their leaves be shed. 
The winds alone shall fan 
The clustering locks back from his pallid brow 
A touch of fingers howe'er light 
Were all too heavy on those temples white 
And waxen cheeks. 
Now let his grave be made 
There where the laurel's shade 
Dusks the small brook that seeks 
To quench its sobs mid trailing grasses green. 
Dear Love ! How glad his eyes, 
In the old days when under kinder skies, 
Mid flowers with bursting buds between 
And butterflies afloat. 
He shook his dewy throat 
And sang for very joy 
Of life, poor boy ! 
Xow he is dead ; 
The year is fled 
Beyond recall, 
And where the blossoms all 



At the Sign of the Heart 361 



O'erhung his happy bower, birds are mute, 

And wandering breezes flute 

A melancholy strain. 

Bury him out of sight, 

Bury him from the light, 

Alike from joy and pain, 

From sun and rain. 

There is not one to weep 

That he is gone, so let his grave be deep, 

And nothing more be said, 

For Love is dead. 



CANTICLE 

SOFT as the dew that falls by night 
Beneath the moon's entranced light 
Upon my thirsty heart love fell ; 
Love slakes my drouth, and all is well. 

No claustral lily lifteth up 

More eagerly her virgin cup, 

To quaff the balm-draught from above. 

Than I my heart to drink of love. 

Now all my days are dream-enwreathed 
And perfume on my dark is breathed; 
Joy's buds within my bosom swell; 
Sing, O my heart, for all is well. 



362 The Harvest Home 

THE REFLUENT WAVE 
I 

DAILY we dwell beneath the self-same roof ; 
Our unaverted eyes meet as of yore ; 
In small fair household courtesies, as before. 
Our self-forgetfulness is put to proof; 
We tread a common path, nor hold aloof 

From the old scenes which erstwhile wreathed our 

door 
With Eden's early grace, yet more and more 
Our woven lives are severed, warp and woof. 

Not now, as once, a simple flower imparts 

Its tender tale to our united souls; 
Our hands clasp, but no answering gladness starts 

Wave-like from zones where love's deep ocean rolls; 
We speak, we smile, we mingle, yet our hearts 

Are sundered each from each wide as the poles. 

II 

Still— still — who knows? a touch, a tear, a sigh, 
A sweet remembered word, some sudden way 
Of speech, awaking memories of a day 

When earth laughed forth in bloom, and all the sky 

Grew opulent with love's own vermeil dye, — 
Who knows but one of these, like magic, may 
Restore the glory, and the rapturous sway, 

Within the heart, of hair and lip and eye? 



At the Sign of the Heart 363 



Echoes that haunt the silence of the past, 
Visions of joy that keep a vigil vain. 

Fond ghosts that wander in the rayless, vast, 
Unhallowed night with empty cries of pain, — 

Who knows but these may all prevail at last, 
And love's receding wave rush back again ? 



THE VEILED DESTINY 

THE dark had not yet come, but day was fallen 
Among the ruddy embers of the west; 
Sweetly the dew was gathering on the flowers, 
And late bees, heavy-laden, homeward turned. 
Somewhere, far off, amid the dusky fields, 
One solitary bird above its nest 
Uttered its little cry of anxious joy. 
In mine your hand lay, like a snowflake chill, 
And in the shadow of your eyes I read 
Our mutual doom. No whispered word availed. 
A single star, amid the curtaining clouds, 
Peered out and twinkled coldly. And our lips 
Met once, not with a swift touch full of fire, 

But passionless, as ashes lay between 

Then from my empty life your presence passed 

Forever, while upon the insensate world 

The stark night closed, and Hope lay newly dead. 



364 Tin-: Harvest Home 



THE DIVIDING OF THE WAYS 

ANGUISH of parting! — here swerve the ways, 
This path to the right, and that to the left; 
We are come at length to our day of days, 

To our moment of moments, and are bereft. 
Eyen so — I will hold your hand for a space. 
Look once again in your truth-clear eyes, 
Read over the lines of your patient face, 
That my soul may yet hold yon picture-wise. 

Shall we say it is best that it should be so? 

Were Fate not loth, and had we met 
While the hills were washed with the morning-glow. 

And all the valleys with balm were wet, 
W r e had found our life, then, you and I, 

Laid hands on the full warm pulse of the years, 
Had drained the chalice of blessings dry. 

Nor e'er set lip to this cruse of tears. 

Still, who shall deny that this bitter hour, 

As a blind seed sown in the womb of Time, 
May bear not yet its consummate flower 

In another sphere and another clime? 
Who knows that our loss is not rarer gain? 

That ever like fools we choose the less ? 
That the core of joy is swathed in pain. 

And peace in uttermost weariness? 



At the Sign of the Heart 365 



The sun drops low, and the twilight falls ; 

The mist hangs over the moaning burn 
Like a frosty breath; 'a late bird calls, 

And above the wood the young stars yearn. 
Must it be farewell? — yea, it must be so. 

And we shall fare well, despite grief's threat, 
For still, wherever our feet may go, 

Our brows towards the self-same goal are set. 



WIZARDRY 

DEW in the heart of the rose — 
Spirit of lambent fire — 
Breath of the wind that blows — 
Voice of the Spring's desire — 
Soul of the song that thrills 

With rapture through earth and sea — 
Light of the dawn on the darkling hills- 
Such is my love to me. 

Blithe are her feet that fall, 
Quickening the tender grass — 

Sweet are her lips that call 
As the music of streams that pass; 

The sum of the world's delight 

In all fair things that be — 

Star of the mariner's longing sight — 
Such is my love to me. 



366 The Harvest Home 



THE JESTER 

THEY rode together down the claustral aisles 
Of the dim woodland. From the cool retreats 
And leafy privacies the mated birds 
Ruffled their throats in song. High overhead 
The sun coursed a diaphanous sky, and sent 
Through swaying boughs his javelins of gold. 
A slender stream rang all its crystal bells 
'Twixt banks of moss and fern beside the way 
Whither they passed unheeding. The sleek steeds 
Set noiseless hoofs on mast and russet leaves, 
The last year's fallen glory. Each was young, 
And she was very fair. His arm was zoned 
About her; the twin roses in her cheeks 
Flamed as she drooped against him, her bright hair 
Flowed o'er his shoulder, and her dancing plumes 
Swept his bronzed cheek. 

Then were they ware of one 
Who, bowed and tattered, o the shadow stood 
Leaning upon a staff. His sightless eyes 
Were bent upon the twain, a flickering hand 
Was out-thrust towards them, while across his breast, 
Stained with unseasonable rains and dews, 
The legend ran, "Sweet folk, alms for the blind." 
With little sounds of pity they drew rein, 



At the Sign of the Heart 367 



Upon the pleading palm a coin was laid, 
And conscience- free they pricked along their path 
Till suddenly, from behind, a peal of mirth 
Caught them as with a buffet, and they turned; 
Then from his face the beggar plucked a mask. 
His ragged garments from his body slipt, 
And they beheld the dazzling wings of Love. 



A HAUNTED HEART 

(Vale, vale, in (sternum vale) 

OUR ways diverge ; we shall not meet again ; 
But that old season, gone beyond recall. 
Shall never quite pass from your life, nor all 
Forgotten be its pleasures and its pain. 
Hushed is the music of the summer rain 
Among the flowers ; no more the lilies tall 
Flame in the garden where for us the small 
Vine-cloistered minstrel warbled his refrain. 

The last word has been spoken and we part; 

Vanished the dream which was too bright to stay 
Hate from her quiver draws a final dart 

Full-fledged with scorn and deadly will to slay. 
Farewell ! the hollow chambers of your heart 

Shall know henceforth the ghost of a dead day. 



368 The Harvest Home 



THE BLIND ARCHER 

BEAUTIES, guess ye where he bides? 
In some flowery hedge he hides, 
Folding close each filmy van; 
From his mother's side he ran, 
Wanton, wilful, naked, blind ; 
If the boy ye chance to find, 
Fly the spot or yet his dart 
Quivers in your stricken heart. 
Evermore he bends his ear, 
Listening for a footstep near, 
Lurking till some hapless maid 
Nigh his rosy lair hath strayed; 
To the cord a winged shaft 
Sets he then with cruel craft; 
Hark ye ! sightless though he is, 
Rarely doth this archer miss. 



TO- 



DEAREST, we have wrought together 
Through the wasting years, 
In serene and troubled weather, 

Mocked of hopes and fears; 
Now beyond Time's lessening tether, 
Lo, the end appears. 



At the Sign of the Heart 369 



While the certain dusk advances, 

Nestle at my side; 
Sunset kindles in thy glances, 

O my faithful bride ; 
Eve thy fairness but enhances, 

Past youth's rosy pride. 

So our courage shall not alter 

With the changing light, 
Nor our onward footsteps falter 

Toward the coming night; 
Still our hearts con love's sweet psalter, 

And the way is bright. 



THE LATE COMER 

BE glad that love hath come to thee and me, 
Beloved, tardy comer though he is; 
Dearer to me this rare autumnal bliss 
Than all the Spring's precarious grace could be. 
What were life's triumphs, never more to see 
Love's splendor burn in other eyes — to miss 
The rapturous wonder when love's first warm kiss 
Dews the soft lips surrendered trustingly. 
Dear, in deep shadows I so long have lain 

That I am avid of the smallest ray 
Foretelling love's great glory dawns again 

To bless my life, ere evening, chill and gray, 
Quenches the vital spark in heart and brain; 
O star of hope, lead in the fuller day! 



3/o The Harvest Home 



LOVE GIVES ITS ALL 

LOVE gives its all nor counts the price, 
Happy that thus it still may show 
In an unmeasured sacrifice 
Its precious overflow. 

Where eyes are dimmed with lonely tears, 
Where hearts are bowed with grief and care, 

Where weakness walks 'mid gloom and fears- 
Love sheds its healing there. 

Love's hands are strong to lift and save; 

Down pain's dark ways Love goes afar; 
Love's beacon shines athwart the grave, 

And kindles like a star. 

Love scales the height and probes the deep, 
And when death's shadow o'er us lies, 

Love's mighty pinions upward sweep 
To bear us to the skies. 



HER RETURNING 

THROUGH the long hours I dreamed of pain 
Within my heavy ears 
My pulses thundered, and my brain 
Was sick with nameless fears. 



At the Sign of the Heart 371 



Then suddenly the morning broke; 

The desolate night was o'er; 
And lo ! I saw thee, as I woke, 

Stand smiling at the door. 



SOMETIME— SOMEWHERE 

SOMETIME, sometime — ah, let not hope abate 
Her vestal flame — when past the cloudy night, 

My soul shall stand revealed in clearer light, 
Wilt thou not set ajar thy heart's closed gate? 
No storm-tossed bird e'er sought its nested mate, 

All spent and weary from its anxious flight, 

More eagarly than I, through drouth and blight, 
Toil towards love's shrine, withdrawn, inviolate. 
Some guerdon somewhere surely there must be, 

Some cool oasis in the desert sands, 
Some peaceful haven past the homeless sea, 

For the worn pilgrim from unsmiling lands ; — 
O thou where Elim's palms and fountains be, 

To thee I lift faint eyes and suppliant hands. 



J7- The Harvest Home 



AT SHUT OF DAY 

NOT now, not now, not of this veiled sun 
Nor tenuous shade, our tremulous love was born, 

But when the sheer night feathered toward the morn, 
And the faint stars, like tapers, one by one, 
Died in the dawn, and the chill night was done. 

'Twas when the light wind o'er the breathing corn 

Winnowed his vans, and from each gossamered thorn 
Billowed the dew-pearled gonfalons day had won. 
Then had our love its birth — a fluttering thing, 

That scarce, knew if the fire-fledged morn had come. 
Or if to swell its moon-white throat and sing, 

Or bid, 'mid twilight leaves, its voice be dumb. 
But now day wanes — Dear, doth desire take wing? 

Doth the grasshopper e'en grow burdensome? 



HIS CONFESSION 

WHAT boots it to give me your hand? 
No thrill do I feel; 
True, once it was otherwise — see, o'er the land 
The long shadows steal. 

Ay, once a soft pair of dark eyes 

Could trouble my rest; 
Could wake song or sorrow — behold, the light dies 

From out the dim west. 



At the Sign of the Heart 373 



I loved you ; I own it was so ; 

But all that is dead; 
So come, we are lingering late, let us go — 

The twilight has fled. 



HER COMING 

LIGHT on the hilltops, dew on the clover; 
Dawn, and a song in the air ; 
Gold of the buttercups half the world over, 

And gold in the sheen of her hair; 
She's coming, she's coming, her footsteps are shaking 

The gossamer spun from the thorn; 
She's coming, O heart, and the flowers are waking ; 
She's coming and bringing the morn. 

Splendor on far peaks, dusk in the valleys ; 

O wonder and joy of the day! 
Mid opaline shadows the brooklet outsallies ; 

The nest is a-swing on the spray; 
She's coming, she's coming, her sandals are gleaming 

Along the waste places of night ; 
She's coming to waken my soul from its dreaming 

And drench the new world with delight. 



374 The Harvest Home 



RECOGNITION 

THOUGH I shall find thee robed in white, 
And on thy brow, pure and serene, 
A beauty more divinely bright 
Than earth hath ever seen ; 

And though I dumbly strive to trace 
The sweet, worn human lines again 

Within thy changed, seraphic face. 
But strive, alas ! in vain ; 

Thy voice shall wake the ancient thrill, 
And through thy radiant disguise 

I shall behold the old love still 
Deep burning in thine eyes. 



THE ANSWER 

WHY do I love thee? — ask, when night is done, 
Why morning dawns ; ask any flower that blows, 
Why from its dewy heart the perfume flows 
When zephyrs woo ; ask why the gossamers, spun 
By faery hands ere moonlit hours are run, 
Shake all their threaded tears if but the rose 
Stir in its dreams ; ask why green buds unclose 
Their tender bosoms to the quickening sun. 



At the Sign of the Heart 375 



Ah, who shall fathom life's old mysteries, 
Or read the ancient riddle of the heart? 

But this I know — whene'er thy gentle eyes 
Look into mine, along my pulses start 

Strange melodies, and I see thy soul that lies, 
Virgin and white, in its own place apart. 



THE FLEDGELING 

DEAR, in the secret, sheltered nest 
Still let love's timid fledgeling lie, 
While softly in the violet west 
The vernal sunsets die. 

For, haply, on some golden morn, 
When shadows ripple o'er the w r heat, 

And midges wind an elfin horn, 
And summer airs blow sweet, 

Its throat shall thrill with ecstasy, 
Whilst thou, 'mid screenings leaves apart, 

Shalt hear in that wild minstrelsy 
Echoes of thine own heart. 



3;6 The Harvest Home 



VALE 

LET us forget, my heart, let us forget 
That old sweet day when summer skies were blue, 
And that one hour, caught in noon's golden net, 

When all the world seemed kind, and love was new. 

Now other skies are o'er us ; love, denied, 
Casts one sad, backward glance to that drear place 

Where Faith, grown weary, fainted, and Hope died, 
Hiding in dust her unregarded face. 



LOVE'S RENASCENCE 

DEAR LOVE, I love you as the flowers the dew, 
As the parched desert loves the healing rain, 
As tear-worn eyes soft slumber after pain, 
As winter-prisoned buds the vernal blue. 
My soul's deep tides all move and meet in you ; 
The slackened lutestrings that so long have lain 
Unswept, forgotten, dumb, now wake again 
To thrill with ecstasies which once they knew. 
For you to me are life and warmth and sun; 

The naked boughs with bloom are clothed once more 
Like pearls, love's dear bestowments, one by one, 

t hoard away within my heart, a store 
Of treasured sweets where treasure there was none. 
And all my world grows opulent as of yore. 



At the Sign of the Heart 2>7\ 



DIVIDED 



A LITTLE while, ah, yet a little while 
As Time's swift shuttle plies, and I shall be 

With thee at last but a wan memory, 
Too dim and fugitive for tear or smile. 
But I shall see thee in the woodland aisle, 

In the white clouds piled o'er the heaving sea, 

In the far mountain's blue immensity, 
In sun-scorched city streets spread mile on mile. 
But haply, sometime, mid night's shadowy gleams, 

Across uncharted leagues, from unknown lands, 
Though 'twixt us roll the tides of countless streams, 

And like an ocean stretch the desert sands, 
Thou shalt behold me in unwilling dreams, 

With eyes of sorrow and beseeching hands. 



VALLEY-BORN 

''For love is of the valley" 

LOVE in the darkened valley keeps the hearth-fire 
bright, 
Where the vine-grown latticed cottage nestles beside 
the lane ; 
'Mid gathering mists and shadows her lamp gleams 
through the night, 
And gentle eyes watch hour by hour behind the wink- 
ing pane. 



378 The Harvest Home 



Love in the watered valley prepares her simple board, 

Laden with oaten cakes and honey amber-clear, 
And haply a cruse of wine from autumn's vintage 
poured, 
When the oozing vats dripped nectar in the harvest 
of the year. 

Love in the quiet valley frets not for soaring wings ; 
Hers are the vision and dream mid life's small homely 
tasks ; 
A lullaby crooned in the twilight, a cradle that lightly 
swings, 
And a homeward-faring footstep — ah ! nothing more 
she asks. 

Love in the verdant valley plights happy troth, nor seeks 
To stanch on the arid heights the ache of a lonely 
life; 
She mounts no perilous paths towards the barren, home- 
less peaks, 
Where warm breasts hover no dear brood, nor glad 
lips whisper "wife." 



At the Sign of the Heart 379 



O BREATH OF THE GOLDEN DAY 

BREATH of the golden day, blow free 
Blow out of the opal west; 
Blow thou a token or sign to me, 

To hush my heart's unrest ; 
O Bring from the far-off sunset sea 
Some message of love confest. 

O breath of the dawn-lit dusk, I wait; 

Blow down from the hills of myrrh ; 
The bird now wakens his nested mate ; 

The dreaming roseleaves stir ; 
O haste, for the weary night grows late ; 

Brino- one dear word from her. 



A SLEEP AND A DREAM 

"La vie est un sommeil, V amour en est le reve" 

Is life but a slumber, and love but a dreaming? 

Ah soul, should this prove to be true, 
Then nothing were real, all things were but seeming 

And you w r ere a dream, dearest, too, 
Ay, you 

Were naught but a dream, dearest, too. 

But, ah, though a dream, from the regions Elysian 
On radiant wings thou dost sweep ; 



380 The Harvest Home 



So, if life be but slumber, and love but a vision, 
May Heaven ne'er wake me from sleep, 

But keep 
Me still the blest captive of sleep. 

FULFILLMENT 

SOMEWHERE beyond the mete of time 
And the last morrow's ken, 
Where morn shall blaze, as in its prime. 
Ere seen by eyes of men— 

Where spirit from the bond of flesh 

Shall be forever free. 
Our happy feet shall walk the fresh 

Sweet ways of mystery. 

We twain shall wander hand in hand. 
Where suns and planets cease, 

And in that Presence come to stand ^ 
Whose perfect name is Peace. 

And there, upon that utmost height, 
Down which strange splendors pour. 

Our souls shall mingle in the light — 
One, one forevermore. 

And I shall fold thee to my side. 
And thou at length shalt know 

The love I bore thee, O my bride, 
In the dim long ago. 



Ax the Sign of the Heart 381 



And thou in thy white loveliness, 

And 1 released from strife, 
Shall learn how, out of storm and stress 

Is won the gift of life. 



AT SUNSET 

LOVE came across the meadows 
At the dawning of the day; 
Before him fled the shadows, 

Past the mountains, far away; 
Love came, a dear, unbidden guest; 
The mated bird sang by its nest; 
While morning caroled in my breast, 
And Oh, the joy of living! 

Love came across the meadows 
At the dawning of the day, 

But left me in the shadows 
When night fell, cold and gray; 

He fled, the false and fickle guest; 

The bird drooped by the empty nest; 

The evening chilled my lonely breast, 
And Oh, the woe of living! 



382 The Harvest Home 



UNFORGOTTEN 

OLOST one, though the long years still divide 
Our onward paths, we ne'er shall wholly part, 
For vestal Memory, at her altar-side, 

Shall feed the sacred flame within my heart. 

And all fair things that come to me the while — 
The flush of dawn, the twilight-damasked skies — 

Bring back again the sunlight of your smile, 
The deathless wonder of your star-like eyes. 

Yet, sometimes, when the night is on the land, 
And barren fields with wintry rains are wet, 

I hunger for the warm touch of your hand, 
And all my soul awakes to wild regret. 



THE VERNAL CALL 

COME, dearest, it is time to go, 
The crimson buds are calling ; 
The south-wind whispers sweet and low 

The slender streams are falling 
From slope to slope with bells of foam 

Upon their dimpled bosoms, 

And twinkling feet already roam 

Amid the springing blossoms. 



At the Sign of the Heart 383. 



Come, dearest, for the vernal breath 

Within our hearts is waking; 
Loosed are the frigid bands of death ; 

The year's young day is breaking. 
The happy birds from bough to bough 

To find their mates are winging; 
O love, our springtime, too, is now, 

And youth returns with singing. 



DISINHERITED 

I BUILT my life in thee; in that dear nest 
Hope carolled o'er her fledgelings day by day, 

Bodeless of hours when they should fly away, 
And leave bereaved and lorn her gentle breast. 
My sunlight was thy smile, and I was blest; 

Till round the rose-strewn path where I did stray 

Gathered unhallowed vapors, chill and gray, 
And ominous clouds frowned from the darkened west. 
But now I know not, oh ! I know not, where 

The wild fresh beauty of our morn hath fled; 
The world, grown aged, is no longer fair; 

The dewless petals of the rose are shed; 
Love lies discrowned and dumb — he that was heir 

Of all our dreams — and dust is on his head. 



384 The Harvest Home 



ALL BEAUTEOUS THINGS 

ALL beauteous things meet in the wondrous deep 
Of her dark eyes — cool dawns and orange eves. 

And fhitterings of green wind-lifted leaves 
On noon-tide slopes where summer lies asleep ; 
There, mirrored, are the streams that downward leap 

To die in mist; and there the dream that weaves 

Its midnight spell about her and retrieves 
Her spirit from the cares day hath in keep. 
Plead for me, O my verse, breathe all my love 

Into her heart — dear heart that I would fain 
Shelter against my own ; and I would prove, 

Through all the years to be, that not in vain 
To crown her life with blessedness I strove, 

Or sought to shield her gentle soul from pain. 



HER LOVELINESS 

HER loveliness makes music in my soul ; — 
A lily in the dew ; a rose at morn 
When the wind ripples o'er the golden corn ; 
Streams that between the dappled meadows roll 
Their shining length ; bells that at evening toll 
Their silver vespers ; bees that wind their horn 
Through noonday quests ; and, when the stars are born, 
Late birds swift winging towards their nested goal — 



At the Sign of the Heart 385 



All these wake not within my prescient heart 
So much of joy as when, her gentle eyes 

Upraised to mine making my pulses start, 

I filch from their pure deeps some sweet surprise, 

And of all beauty feel that she is part — 

Beauty of night and dawn, of earth and skies. 



THE PARADOX 

AH, had I know the sorrow and unrest, 
The wild desires and vain imaginings, 

The wished-for good no morrow ever brings, 
The days of dolor and the nights unblest; 
Yea, had I known how from my life the zest 

Should vanish as the dwindled water-springs; 

How hope, grown hopeless, with dishevelled wings 
Low trailing, should surcease her futile quest — 
I would have loved thee still, because I must; 

For in thy voice I hear the prescient call 
Of homing birds borne down the wintry gust, 

With breath of hyacinthine buds, and all 
The music of clear streams, while ev'n the dust 

Breaks into bloom where'er thy light feet fall. 



386 The Harvest Home 



LOVE AND BEAUTY 



I FOLLOW Love, and Beauty twin to Love, 
Beauty so beautiful and Love so sweet; 
They smile and beckon to me where they move, 
Yet e'er elude my clogged and stumbling feet. 



THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 

MORE life, more love! O buds that swell in 
spring, 
And riotous birds that through the orchards wing, 
And sweet small violets in the hollows lone, 
And vernal breaths o'er crinkling waters blown, 
And federate trees with mounting sap tides rife. 
Ye plead one wild desire: "More life, more life!" 

More life, more love! Ah, little lyric throats, 

And sun-bright leaves, deep grass, and glancing motes, 

And pastoral bees at day-long sylvan tasks, 

And pungent herb that in the midnoon basks, 

And household vines that screen the nesting dove, 

Ye lift one poignant cry: "More love, more love!" 



ALTAR STAIRS 



Not they are blest who greet the morning's sun, 
Nor they on whom the sultry noontide glows. 

But blest are they, life's labors being done. 
Whom evening calls unto its dusk repose. 



Altar Stairs 389 



THE ANCHORITE 

HERE in the desert where the very thorn 
Is dwarfed and shrivelled with the sun's excess — 
Where the gray rocks are flushed beneath the morn, 

And night wraps round their uncouth nakedness 
Her star-lit shadows — still I watch and pray, 
While the slow hours uncounted creep away. 

Oft with the knotted scourge my rebel flesh 

I chasten in the importunate solitude ; 
Upon my brow the wind breathes sweet and fresh, 

Above the earth the palpitant heavens brood; 
But still I turn to that dark realm within, 
In agony to wrestle with my sin. 

The vast plain pulsates in the withering heat 

Which rolls athwart the waste sands, wave on wave; 

Along the barren ridge its billows beat 
About the doorway of my narrow cave; 

While I, with bruised knees and aching eyes, 

Besiege with prayer the unresponsive skies. 

On bitter herbs I break my bootless fast, 
And at the brackish pool I stanch my thirst ; 

I hear old voices from the ghostly past, 

I groan, and weep, and am as one accurst ; 

All night my truss of straw is drenched with tears; 

My spirit faints ; I am consumed with fears. 



3Q0 The Harvest Home 



O wherewith shall I gird me for my task, 
Or my perfidious pride of life abase? 

When from my soul I tear its guilty mask, 
And low in dust hide my unhallowed face, 

E'en then I hear soft whispers from above, 

While round me hover dreams of human love. 



THE SECRET MINISTRIES 

CHILD of My love, I know thy bitter care, 
And that thy weary heart is like to break 
Betimes, as o'er life's worn and dusty ways 
From day to day thou bearest thy huge load : 
I laid it on thee and I know thy strength ; 
Stern is thy trial, but no feather's weight 
Beyond its limit shall thy sorrow press. 
Nor shalt thou faint, for I will gather thee 
Within Mine arm's sufficient comforting, 
And breathe a holy courage through thy fears, 
Never will I forsake thee, but will bless 
With secret ministries, until thy bonds 
Are loosed, and the old burden from thee slips, 
At the bright portals of thy Father's house. 



Altar Stairs 391 



A HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS 

THIS house, so slowly builded up 
Through seasons dashed with sun and rain 
This heart that holds as in a cup 

Life's little pleasures mixt with pain; 
These hands that fumble at their task, 

Or nerveless fall from labors done; 
This face that hides me like a mask; 

These feet that age clogs as they run — 
All these shall pass and be no more. 

And that which grew through strenuous days 
Shall like a troubled dream be o'er. 

Nor know again Time's clouded ways. 
But somehow, somewhere, from the night, 

And from the dust, shall surely rise 
That which eludes the grosser sight, 

To seek its home beyond the skies. 



HOMEWARD 

I TREAD the path; the end thereof 
I cannot see ; but thou, my Guide, 
Hast taught me that thy name is Love, 

So evermore at thy dear side 
I walk content; and though my feet 

Are sometimes weary, and my eyes 
Strain through the dark, I find it sweet, 
Knowing the pathway homeward lies. 



392 The Harvest Home 



AS A LITTLE CHILD 

TO feel the freshness of the opening year ; 
The joy of swelling buds and springing grass 
To see the flame-like crocus lift its spear; 

To trace God's footsteps shining where they pass ; 

To know that heaven is never far away, 

Nor lose the open vision of the soul; 
To walk 'mid common wonders day by day, 

And read the cryptic signs on nature's scroll; 

To watch the lyric seasons come and go ; 

The flickering leaf, the fern's uncurling fronds : 
The delicate star-shaped crystals of the snow ; 

The crinkling stream, the osier's slender wands ; 

The yellow bee with pollen-dusted thighs ; 

The lily with the dewdrop in its breast ; 
The nascent splendor of the morning skies ; 

The evening purpling in the solemn west ; 

Yea, still to find the old world sweet and fair, 

To move 'mid ancient evils undented, 
With eye un jaundiced by deceit and care, 

Keep me. O Father, as a little child. 



Altar Stairs 393 



WEARY 

WHY cry aloud? Why lift a strenuous voice? 
Better is quiet; better that rapt hour 
When thou canst feel the large cool night rejoice, 
And truth speaks to thee from the dew-lipped flower. 

Rest and be still; wrapped softly round thy heart, 
Let the sweet silence heal thee like a balm ; 

Forget the praise ; thine is the better part, 
And heaven shall send its whispers through thy calm. 

The world may shout its triumphs from afar, 
Care not ; commune apart with thine own soul ; 

Safe from the strife of tongues, the noise of war, 
Let peace likes tides of music round thee roll. 



WASTED 

METHOUGHT 'twere time enough, when the rathe 
dews 
Dried from the herbs, for life's imperious tasks. 
So all the morning, while the golden hours 
Laughed in their happy dance, I chased the midge, 
The thistle-down, the purfled butterfly, 
And gave no heed to duty. Whisperings 
Of solemn import reached mine ears betimes, 
But struck not on my heart. So down the long 
Bright aisles of airy fancies pleasure bore 



394 The Harvest Home 



My winged feet. Till on a sudden fell 
The sovereign night, inexorably calm, 
With quenching shadows, when no man can work. 



A VESPER PRAYER 

FROM all its little bells the brook 
Shakes out a silver peal, 
And faintly from the forest nook 

Their elfin echoes steal. 
The shadows lengthen on the sward ; 

The light dies in the west : 
Xow through the dewy twilight, Lord, 
Send down the balm of rest. 

The glimmering kine upon the grass 

Lie couched in dumb content, 
And wandering breaths of blossoms pass, 

In one rich perfume blent ; 
The braided gnats in sweet accord 

Wail where the willows weep ; 
Xow through the solemn night, dear Lord, 

Send down the gift of sleep. 



Altar Stairs 395 



HIS EARTHLY COURTS 

HERE, as the seasons come and pass, 
Hope shall uplift her radiant face, 
And sweet as dew on parched grass 
Shall fall God's plenteous grace. 

Here hearts, grown weary in the strife 
Where trade her noisy mart uprears, 

Shall quaff again the peace of life 
And rest them from their fears. 

The silvern crown of age shall bow 
Beside the golden head of youth, 

And at this altar breathe the vow 
That seals them heirs of truth. 

And happy songs shall here outring 
From lips that thrill with praises meet ; 

Her treasures Love shall hither bring 
To lay them at His feet. 

Blest Church of God ! Dear Master, take 
Our simple offerings, small and poor, 

And while the decades roll, O make 
This temple to endure. 

Of those the Father gave to Thee, 
Thou sovereign Lord, may none be lost 

Thus shall our children's children see 
Faith's unimagined host. 



396 The Harvest Home 



"HE BRINGETH THE WIND" 

HOWE'ER it come, howe'er it go, 
I question not what wind may blow, 
Since, whether calm or storm betide, 
Serene o'er all still doth He ride 
Whose chariot wheels the sun out-tire. 
Whose ministers are flaming fire. 
Though tossed my fragile bark, the gale 
That sweeps me on with tattered sail, 
To mariners becalmed mid-sea 
The very breath of life may be. 
The tempest that uproots the oak, 
And rolls the clouds like battle-smoke 
From shattered cliff to riven scar 
Mid shocks of elemental war, 
In yonder cool and claustral wood 
But lifts the violet's azure hood, 
Where in her hushed, sequestered dell 
Like a shy nun she loves to dwell. 
And when the bellowing hurricane 
Leaps wildly o'er the dark champaign. 
Beating as with a mighty flail 
Rich harvests down before the hail, 
While scattered in its huge, blind wrath 
Men's ruined labors strew its path, — 



Altar Stairs 307 



Upon the marge of some clear lake, 

The mirror fair of bloom and brake, 

White lilies lightly dip and rise, 

Asleep beneath the fostering skies. 

Thus howsoe'er the wind may blow, 

Or be it high or be it low, 

I hush my foolish heart to rest; 

God sends the winds, and He knows best. 



DOUBT AND FAITH 

VT^WAS thus the vision came: the sunset bars 

X Were fading from the west, and gathering gloom 
Veiled the fair landscape ; multitudinous sounds, 
Born of the night, from valley and from hill 
Rose solemnly. Then saw I where a path 
Wound down a steep declivity till all 
Was inky darkness, save a single star 
That pulsed with brightness o'er the gulf's black void. 
Thither two travellers came, and staid their feet, 
Affrighted to behold the sheer descent 
Whither the pathway plunged. Then was I ware 
How one upon his eyes did clap his hands 
And leap into the night. The other, calm 
With lifted brows and eyes fixed on the star, 
Stepped downward bravely, and the darkness fled 
Before his fearless feet, and on a sudden 
Shining he saw the happy gates of home. 



3y8 Thl Harvest Home 



THE SHELTERING CARE 

THY spirit, Lord, is on the unquiet deep; 
Beyond its utmost metes, which Thou hath set, 
It may not pass ; though billows foam and rage, 
And bellowing winds from the tumultous gloom 
Smite the tormented bark, still doth Thy hand 
In its wide compass hold the tameless seas 
And granite-rooted hills ; nor may the floods 
That gnash their bodeful fangs round palm-girt isles 
Move from its fostering bed one tranced seed 
That yet shall wake to lift to prosperous skies 
Its swaying fronds. O Eye that slumbers not, 
O Heart whose tender vigil never ends, 
Teach me that in the circuit of Thy love 
Tempests shall bring undoing unto none, 
Even the least of those, whose helplessness 
Nestles within Thy bosom's cherishing. 
When thunder peals and the stunned heavens split 
From side to side, and fiery bolts descend 
Full charged with sudden doom, what time the black 
Waste midnight shudders into denser night, 
Somewhere the light lies still on breathing flowers, 
And soft airs stir the violets in green dells, 
And birds with pulsing throats break into song 
Above the cradled nests. Somewhere the dew 



Altar Stairs 399 



Falls cool on peaceful meadows, and the kine, 

Ruminant with content, lie calmly couched 

By pasture bars ; and all along the vale 

Home lights begin to twinkle, and a sound 

Mellow and hushed steals through the scented dusk — 

A lullaby crooned o'er a drowsy babe. 

Lord, whatsoe'er Thou shalt appoint for me, 

Or calm or storm, O let me not forget 

The world is Thine, and all is well to him 

Who trusts Thy patient care. Afar or near, 

In dark or light, no hurt shall come to me, 

For that my times are in Thy guardian hand, 

And by my path Thy warders wait: at whiles, 

To me in starry moments there shall come 

Low murmurings of celestial voices, borne 

On perfumed winds whence deathless summer breaks 

Its surf of blossoms round my Father's door. 



A CHALLENGE 

ARISE, O soul, and gird thee up anew, 
Though the black camel Death kneel at thy gate 
No beggar thou that thou for alms shouldst sue; 
Be the proud captain still of thine own fate ! 



400 The Harvest Home 



ELIM 

And they came to Elim, where were twelve zvells of 
water, and threescore and ten palm trees. — Ex. xv. 27. 

OELIM, I have sought thee long with tears ; 
Over the weary desert, day by day. 
I've reeled and stumbled, and the sands have parched 
My withered flesh. Along the dunes I drag 
My leaden feet, and all the dewless skies 
Are void of hope or succor. Oft afar 
Thy palms have lured me onward, but at last 
Have vanished from my sight. At whiles my ears 
Have caught the murmur of thy falling streams, 
Like music heard in sleep, only to die 
In silence as I listened. Yet, ah yet, 
I know that somewhere lies thy cooling shade 
On tender sward, and flowers nod and smile 
In sheltered hollows, and the breath of night 
Is sweet with perfume. O thou Guiding Hand, 
Wilt thou not bring me thither, ere my strength 
Be wholly spent? So shall I come and drink 
Of those clear wells whereof my lips are fain, 
And lay my burden down, remembering 
In the hushed, glad fulfillment of that hour, 
Xo word of Thine e'er lapsed, no promise failed. 



Altar Stairs 4<> l 



RECOMPENSE 

TIME steals the damask from the rose, 
The wild, sweet freshness from the dawn; 
The night forgets to bring repose; 

From spring the rapture is withdrawn : 
Hope's rainbow, seen of old through tears, 
No longer spans the flying years. 

Yet hath the heart its quiet dells 
Where Memory keeps her bowers green; 

Where Peace abides, and Honor dwells, 
And faith is glad in things unseen; 

Where Love's warm afterglows still lurk, 

And Patience hath her perfect work. 

ICHABOD 

THE glory is departed — imminent night 
Wraps her dusk vans about the mountains gray, 

Where late the smouldering embers of the day 
Glowed with a solemn and foreboding light : 
Thus summer's pageant dies upon the sight; 

Thus autumn's tragic flush dissolves away; 

Thus the dear dreams we fain would keep for aye 
Are startled into unreturning flight. 
O maimed and stricken life! — the lyric bloom 

And dewy freshness — shall these never be 
Thy portion more? Drowned in the midnight gloom, 

Shalt ne'er again some radiant vision see? 
Courage! behind the sullen peaks of doom, 

Somewhere God's kindling splendor dawns for thee. 



402 The Harvest Home 



'THE STRENGTH OF THE HILLS IS HIS ALSO' 

TAKE thou, O Lord, thy meed of praise; 
Life still is good to me; 
Beneath the steadfast stars I raise 
My tranquil face to thee. 

I thank thee for the unwasting strength 

Of the age-rooted hills, 
Down whose ribbed ledges foams the length 

Of the rock-tumbled rills; 

For the long-steeped summer hours; 

The voiceless hush of noon ; 
The deep still nights when dew-tranced flowers 

Lie wet beneath the moon. 

I thank thee for the various life 

In cloud and stream and grass — 
The frog's bassoon, the cricket's fife, 

The flutes of birds that pass ; 

For the gray mists whose streamers weave, 

Above the soaring woods, 
Thin airy shapes of vans that cleave 

The upper solitudes. 



Altar Stairs 403 



My grateful heart accepts the past, 
Its sorrows, tears and scorn, 

The burden sore grown light at last, 
The long-belated morn. 

And so my soul adventures far, 
Through pathways wild and sweet, 

To come where thine high altars are, 
And worship at thy feet. 



BEYOND THE MERIDIAN 

A LITTLE rest, a little rest, O God! 
Ere the long darkness shuts me from the day, 

Let me have time to see the morning lay 
Her lavish gold upon the hills and, shod 
With purple, pass where vestal eve hath trod 

The starry lanes of midnight. I would stay 

A-near the cool and healing grass, and pray 
As prays the violet from the mossy sod, 
Taking the rain and sunshine as from Thee, 

Scarce conscious that it asks, but glad withal 
Simply to live. My tired soul would see 

Green buds and fritillaries, and would call 
For priest-like nature's benedicite, 

Ere death's eclipse upon mine eyelids fal "•. 



404 The Harvest Home 



THE POTTER'S CLAY 

UPON the potter's flying wheel the clay 
Knows not the purpose of its plasmic day 
So we upon this blindly-whirling sphere 
Are shaped to ends which do not yet appear. 



"AND THY SLEEP SHALL BE SWEET" 

Prov. Hi. 24. 

THE end draws nigh ; for this I thank Thee, Lord 
The goal at length makes glad my weary eyes 
Hushed are the old wild woes, the last vain word, 
Day's raucous cries. 

The evening comes, with soothing murmurs blent; 

I strove and failed; now twilight whispers, "Rest' 
For me the cool grass spreads its shadowy tent, 

Earth opes her breast. 

Out of the lists I reel — and it is well; 

Vanished is pain, with joy that none can keep, 
While ancient night weaves o'er me her soft spell 

Of dreamless sleep. 

So let me lie, while seasons wax and wane. 

Careless alike of toil and toil's surcease. 
Unheeding winter's cold or summer's rain, 

Wrapped round with peace. 



POEMS BY DORIS KENYON 



Poems by Doris Kenyon 407 



THE POOL ON THE PAVEMENT 

ALL the long dreary day the sky had wept, 
Till o'er the world the night fell hushed and cool; 
Then dried its tears — and on the pavement slept 
A little pool. 

Within its mimic depths the sudden glare 
Of swaying street-lamps scattered shimmering beams, 

Till in the dark it lay once more and there 
Resumed its dreams. 

O'erhead the clouds, unsheperded and wild, 
Parted and fled to the night-hills afar, 

And in the pool's dim sky dawned undefiled 
One radiant star. 

Anon a flower-decked bride passed on her way, 

Her happy face reflected at her feet; 
And a night-prowler, like a bird of prey, 

Sped through the street, 

While glimmered in the pool as in a glass, 
The vision of his scarred and evil face, 

Then like a vapor vanishing, did pass 
And leave no trace. 

A drunken mother, cradling in her arm 

A wailing infant, staggard slowly on, 
Glimpsed in the pool her image with alarm, 

Cursed, and was gone. 



408 The Harvest Home 



But now the clouds roll from the sky's vast blue 
The noise and tumult of the city cease ; 

In the shrunk pool the star shines out anew, 
And night breathes peace. 



FOREKNOWN 
(Lieut. E. B. F., killed in action, France, Sept. 14, 1918) 



I 



DREAMED and I awoke, the morning light 

Streamed o'er my bed — it was no longer night. 



He died in France, and I was with him, though, 
We were three thousand miles apart ; for lo ! . 
He called me to him and I saw him die 
A hero's death; beside him there I knelt, 
My arm beneath his head. He knew I felt 
Repaid while sharing his great sacrifice, 
In that wild night beneath the alien skies. 

I did not need to hear the fatal word 

That came at length ; already, when I heard 

The woful message, it was known full well 

That yonder in the awful din, he fell, 

Laying upon the altar of his God 

The blood wherewith he dewed the shell-torn sod : 

And though I miss him, yet my heart the while 

Like his is tranquil, for I saw him smile. 



Poems by Doris Kenyox 409 



THE LIGHT ON THE HILLSIDE 

AT night, far up the hillside, -faintly shines 
A tiny light that trembles like a star; 
What lies behind its small, uncertain beam 
The dweller in the valley cannot guess ; 
And yet, perchance, a soul that harbors there 
May in some fateful moment touch his own. 

Within a humble cottage, by the stream 

That threads the lonely vale, a crippled child 

Has watched as, eve by eve, the dark draws down 

With dusk and dews, the kindling of that light, 

And in his simple heart has pictured there 

A happy home wherein love reigns supreme. 

The Child Speaks 

Ah, yonder is that twinkling light again ! 

My heart is glad to see its little ray 

Piercing the dark with tidings of good cheer. 

I think that in yon home are sturdy boys, 

Not weak like me, but who can run about 

And play. Some day when I am big and strong 

I'll climb the hill and tell them how they helped 

Me in my heart to bear the cruel pain. 

Each night before I sleep I pray that God 

Will guide and guard them through the coming years, 



4io The Harvest Home 



Making them glad as they have gladdened me, 
Though they have never known the ailing boy 
Shut in his room, beyond the wide green fields. 

Behind the Light— A Wife Speaks 

Behind the guttering candle there is one 

Who speaks in bitterness : "At last you're dead — 

Well, you will never know the poisoned shaft 

You've winged into my breast, nor yet the wreck 

Of all my maiden hopes and girlish dreams. 

I loved you ! Hither came I as a bride, 

And now you die, unwept and all unloved. 

When you fell sick, through the long midnight hours 

I watched beside your pillow, hopeless, crushed, 

Despoiled of woman's birthright. For I knew 

You lacked the wished-for strength to clutch my throat 

In a grip of steel, sparing my wretched life 

That you might only torture me again. 

All this I knew, yet never left your bed, 

Of mortal suffering. What held me there, 

Until this hour I know not, lest, perchance, 

It was some subtle influence that breathed, 

"Be strong, love endeth not in nothingness." 

Now I go forth into the voiceless dark. 

Tearless, alone, yet there is something left 

That cannot wholly perish in the night." 

Thus who shall say the soul which lies behind 

The distant light shall not sometime, somehow 

Meet ours and save us with its healing touch. 



Poems by Doris Kenyon 411 



THE HAVEN OF THE HEART 

WHERE the wild waste of waters toss and seethe, 
And maddened whitecaps dash against the cliffs, 
And the fierce waves round rocky headlands wreathe 
Their foamy flowers and wreckage heaves and drifts — 
She stands at gaze above the angry tide, 

Beholding from her crag the laboring bark, 
And prays her own may safely reach her side, 
As the ship staggers shoreward through the dark. 

On life's wide threshold, with meek, gentle eyes, 

A maiden stands and looks with half affright 
Upon the world's mad ways, the threatening skies, 

And the long shadows that forecast the night ; 
And wonders in her tender heart if he, 

Her own true love, will safely win her side, 
Bringing to her the treasure that shall be 

The crown and glory of his waiting bride. 

THE BIRTH OF TFIE FIREFLY 

ADEWDROP trembled on an aspen leaf; 
Above, a nightingale 
Sent through the dark his first low note of grief, 
Across the shadowy vale ; 

And as that note throbbed on the sentient air. 

Wrung from a heart forlorn, 
The dewdrop slipped into the dusk, and there 

A firefly was born. 



412 The Harvest Home 



THE SELFISH AIM 

HE sought it in life's fresh and dewy morn ; 
In misty woodlands where the shadows lay; 
In summer fields amid the ripening corn ; 
In meadows sweet with hay. 

Nor khamsin winds nor winter's vulpine tooth 
Could daunt him, nor a thousand anxious fears, 

For still he sought the fount of endless youth 
Through long and bitter years. 

Nor did he find it on the hoary hills, 

Among whose splintered crags he toiled in vain, 
Where the long thunder rolls and torn cloud spills 

Its cold and barren rain. 

He sought it by the ocean's tawny sands; 

Amid forgotten cities, gray and old ; 
Love could not woo him with her beckoning hands, 

Nor friendship, fame nor gold. 

Then to the desert turned his weary feet. 
The unattained still luring all his soul, 

Till his strained eyes athwart the dazzling heat 
Beheld at length his goal. 

And there he digged, with heart grown old and seared, 
Until he found the spring, when lo ! he stood 

Ringed round with mountains he himself had reared, 
And perished in the solitude. 



Poems by Doris Kenyon 413 



NAUGHTY LUCILE 

NAUGHTY Lucile, she cam' down from Quebec, 
Wis ze cheek lak ze rose an' all white on ze neck, 
An' she work ver' mooch as a couturiere 
In ze shop — what you call 'em — ze dressmaker, hey ? 

Now she save enough monee to buy ze fine gown, 
Zen she go to ze Astor fer tea; 
She walk up an' down, all ze men turn aroun,' 
An' zay gasp lak a feesh — at what zay can see. 

Oui, naughty Lucile, she mak' all ze men feel 
Zat zay 're mebbe in love wis her ; 
Her lips are lak cherries, her tees are lak pearls, 
Her eyes — sacre Dame ! — zay're not lak ozzer girls'. 

O naughty Lucile, she mak' all ze men feel 

Zat zay 're crazee in love wis her; 

She saz zat she's dyin' fer love an' fer kisses; 

Ze men say, "I'll save her if zat's what she misses." 

O naughty Lucile, she mak' all ze men feel 
Zat zay wish to mak' marry on her; 
Une tres jolie fille, wis ze leetle black curl; 
Ah, bon Dieu! but I say she's ze bes' lookin' girl! 



4i4 The Harvest Home 



THE TEARDROP 



A STAR slips softly from the sky, 
In the hush of dusk, out of the blue 
It is God's teardrop, from on high, 
For He has disappointments, too. 



IN AN AIRPLANE 

GENTLY the ground sank from me ere I knew; 
My heart leaped up as breaking earth's last bond ; 
The trees in huge bouquets a moment swayed 
Like rushes round a pond. 
Busy within their pigmy colonies, 
Below I saw the toiling human ants — 
Then they were gone. Ah ! now I know whence come 
Our dreams ; they dwell where sunrays wink and glance 
Among the rose-hued clouds which break away 
In fragments, as soft breezes earthward play ; 
And sailing by, I saw dim forms that knelt 
Before an altar like pale nuns in gray. 
I was a bird — on pinions wide I swept 
Upward, forever upward still I kept; 
I felt no earthly fetter binding me, 
For I, at last, was free. 



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